


tied to a night they never met

by ThatAj



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oh my god they were zoommates, Past Drug Addiction, Quarantine, Slow Burn, eventual established relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:04:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 78,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23341222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatAj/pseuds/ThatAj
Summary: Timmy, assistant to the SVP of Marketing, is based out of the NYC office of Ivory Advertising and Armie, the Chief Financial Officer, is based out of the LA office. When their company must suddenly transition to working remotely due to COVID-19, Timmy and Armie finally "meet" during an all-hands Zoom meeting. Emails do not always give the most accurate impressions...
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Comments: 1484
Kudos: 504





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iworshipyou_oliver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iworshipyou_oliver/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Slow Show](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20395261) by [mia_ugly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia_ugly/pseuds/mia_ugly). 

> Based on a prompt from ao3commentoftheday on Tumblr:  
Of course I love 'and they were quarantined' but take a moment and consider 'and they were videoconferencing.'
> 
> Two people who meet for the first time while social distancing. They work in different departments or in different cities. At first they're dressed business casual and keeping things professional. Then one day a pet appears and conversation gets casual.
> 
> They start sharing tips for how to exercise in a tiny apartment. They commiserate over the lack of favourite foods or activities. It turns out they were both going to go to an event that is now canceled.
> 
> Eventually, they're both in their pajamas. Work day is done, but their call has now moved to the evening. They cook the same meal, stream a movie together. When will this lockdown end?
> 
> So much potential for pining. So many longing looks. Social distancing video calling coworkers to friends to lovers

June 18, 2019

Mr. Hammer,

I hope this email finds you well. I am Mr. Delli Santi’s new assistant. You may have heard that Will was promoted. Mr. Delli Santi has asked that I obtain last quarter’s ROI for Brown Athletics from you.

Thank you in advance.

Best regards,

Timothee Chalamet  
Assistant to Senior Vice President for Marketing  
Ivory Advertising

June 25, 2019

Mr. Hammer,

I hope this email finds you well. I am circling back around on behalf of Mr. Delli Santi to obtain the ROI from last quarter from Brown Athletics.

Thank you in advance.

Best regards,

Timothee Chalamet  
Assistant to Senior Vice President for Marketing  
Ivory Advertising

July 1, 2019

Timothee,

Please see attached.

Armand Hammer  
Chief Financial Officer  
Ivory Advertising

July 1, 2019

Mr. Hammer,

Thank you on behalf of Mr. Delli Santi for your response.

Best regards,

Timothee Chalamet  
Assistant to Senior Vice President for Marketing  
Ivory Advertising

August 13, 2019

Mr. Hammer,

I hope this email finds you well. Mr. Delli Santi would like to schedule a call with you to discuss comps as part of the Eyeconics pitch. Please see possible days and times attached. Note that times are Eastern Standard Time.

Best regards,

Timothee Chalamet  
Assistant to Senior Vice President for Marketing  
Ivory Advertising

August 20, 2019

Mr. Hammer,

I hope this email finds you well. I am circling back around to find a mutually agreeable time to schedule a call for the Eyeconics pitch. Potential times are attached. Per Mr. Delli Santi, this is time sensitive.

Best regards,

Timothee Chalamet  
Assistant to Senior Vice President for Marketing  
Ivory Advertising

August 27, 2019

Armand Hammer has accepted an invitation to “Eyeconics Pitch Session” at 1 PM August 29, 2019.

August 29, 2019

Mr. Hammer,

This email is to follow up on the voice message just left for you. You are scheduled to speak with Mr. Delli Santi at 1 PM, however it is 1:15 PM and you do not appear reachable on your office or cell phone.

Best regards,

Timothee Chalamet  
Assistant to Senior Vice President for Marketing  
Ivory Advertising

August 29, 2019

Timothee,

I apologize - I am calling Nick now. I thought it was at 1 PM PST.

Armand Hammer  
Chief Financial Officer  
Ivory Marketing

August 30, 2019

Mr. Hammer,

I hope this email finds you well In light of yesterday’s confusion, I wanted to ask - do you have an assistant with whom I might communicate? I recognize much of the correspondence I send on behalf of Mr. Delli Santi may be overlooked in the otherwise crowded inbox of a CFO.

Best regards,

Timothee Chalamet  
Assistant to Senior Vice President for Marketing  
Ivory Advertising

September 16, 2019

Timothee,

I do have an assistant. She is entirely incompetent. Please send emails directly to me, as Nick advised.

Armand Hammer  
Chief Financial Officer  
Ivory Marketing

October 14, 2019

Mr. Hammer,

I hope this email finds you well. Mr. Delli Santi has concerns with Eyeconics’ insistence on using “2020 vision” as a key part of their marketing strategy for next year. Please see attached focus group research. Do you know if there are comps we can pull related to this?

Best regards,

Timothee Chalamet  
Assistant to Senior Vice President for Marketing  
Ivory Advertising

October 22, 2019

Timothee,

I agree in principle with Nick. We do not have comps to pull as I believe the last time marketing faced a similar concern was around “partying like it’s 1999” and those files have not been digitized and probably in the NY office, not here in LA.

Please tell Nick to use the focus groups research and common sense.

Armand Hammer  
Chief Financial Officer  
Ivory Advertising

December 4, 2019

Timothee,

Please have Nick call me. Brown’s Q3 financials are significantly different than projected.

Armand Hammer  
Chief Financial Officer  
Ivory Advertising

Automatic Out of Office Reply

To Whom It May Concern:

I will be out of the office December 2-15 2019. I look forward to responding to your message when I return.

For urgent concerns, please contact Nicholas Delli Santi at ndellisanti@ivory.com

Best regards,

Timothee Chalamet  
Assistant to Senior Vice President for Marketing  
Ivory Advertising

December 17, 2019

Timothee,

I trust you’ve been brought up to speed with the Brown situation now that you’re back in the office. Please prepare the attached for Nick to present to the Board for our end-of-quarter meeting,

Armand Hammer  
Chief Financial Officer  
Ivory Advertising

December 17, 2019

Mr. Hammer,

This is to confirm receipt of the attached.

Best regards,

Timothee Chalamet  
Assistant to Senior Vice President for Marketing  
Ivory Advertising

December 20, 2019

Mr. Hammer,

I hope this email finds you well. Please see attached for your review prior to the end-of-quarter meeting. Mr. Delli Santi has indicated he welcomes all feedback and suggestions.

Best regards,

Timothee Chalamet  
Assistant to Senior Vice President for Marketing  
Ivory Advertising

December 21, 2019

Timothee,

Please see attached with revisions.

Armand Hammer  
Chief Financial Officer  
Ivory Marketing

January 3, 2020

Mr. Hammer,

I hope this email finds you well. Mr. Delli Santi would like to request any projections on Eyeconics Q4 earnings.

Best regards,

Timothee Chalamet  
Assistant to Senior Vice President for Marketing  
Ivory Advertising

January 7, 2020

Timothee,

Please see attached.

Armand Hammer  
Chief Financial Officer  
Ivory Advertising

February 14, 2020

Mr. Hammer,

I hope this email finds you well. Mr. Delli Santi wants to follow up on your recent meeting with Brown Athletics.

Have a good weekend.

Best regards,

Timothee Chalamet  
Assistant to Senior Vice President for Marketing  
Ivory Advertising

February 20, 2020

Timothee,

Attached are the notes my assistant took during the Brown conference call. As previously mentioned, she is incompetent. Tell Nick to pick up the phone and call me and I will give him my impressions. I’m in office until COB.

Armand Hammer  
Chief Financial Officer  
Ivory Advertising

February 20, 2020

Timothee,

I meant COB PST. I just realized you may be about to leave for the night. If Nick is still around, have him call me.

Armand Hammer  
Chief Financial Officer  
Ivory Advertising

March 15, 2020

To: all@ivory.com

Hello All:

In light of recent encouragement from local authorities, both affecting our NYC and LA offices, we will be transitioning to working remotely.

IT will assist you tomorrow in ensuring your laptops are up-to-date and able to connect with our servers.

SVPs, C-Suite, and their assistants should plan for a Zoom conference March 20, 2020 12 PM EST. I trust by then all arrangements to be fully remote will be in place.

Supervisors, please ensure those reporting to you are provided appropriate support.

Thank you all for your flexibility as we determine how to best respond to this global crisis in real time.

With warm regards,  
Luca

Chief Executive Officer  
Ivory Advertising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from "Lover's Spit" by Broken Social Scene


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are themes of past addiction and recovery in this chapter and throughout this work. Much of my knowledge is second-hand, so if you feel I'm getting something wrong or you want to chat, please don't hesitate to say something in the comments or reach out on tumblr.
> 
> Here's some plot!

Timmy squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. The cacophony emanating from his tablet is threatening to give him a headache. He sips his coffee and tries to tune out Mr. Guadagnino and the rest of the C-suite as they try to make sense of their assistants’ instructions on how to use Zoom. He doesn’t want to get involved, he needs this job. 

He glances around his hard-won studio apartment. It’s not much, but it’s his. It’s his so long as he can continue to make rent. And pay for the wireless, whose capacity is being tested by the current Zoom session. He has set up his tablet and laptop set up at the table-turned-home-office so that they are facing the wall, hiding his unmade bed on the other side from view. He glances to his left into the galley kitchen and wonders if his presence would be missed if he disappeared for a moment to top off his coffee and maybe grab an apple. 

He looks back at the squares on his screen, each speaking over each other trying to instruct Mr. Guadagnino how to “mute all” alternating with everyone telling everyone else to please mute themselves. 

In the past week, Timmy has become proficient in Zoom as he has guided the older members of his meetings through the technology, but there the risks of getting irritated are lower. He’s been at Ivory Advertising less than a year and it wouldn’t look good on his resume if he was fired now. Future employers may be willing to overlook a lay off during this global crisis but there are other holes in his resume he would have to explain, _will have to explain_, if he has to apply for another job in the future. Another job where his father’s connections won’t help him.

Timmy’s brain does a delicate calculus, his brain is used to weighing risks and rewards far greater than more coffee and a granny smith, and decides no one will notice if he pops away. He keeps his headphones on, just in case. 

As he stands at the counter slicing his apple, steaming mug of dark roast beside him, the aroma filling the air, he hears a voice booming through his headphones. “Sorry! Sorry everyone!”

Timmy slides across the vinyl made to look like tile in the kitchen to the vinyl that looks like wood in the rest of the apartment and into his chair. He glances at the late arrival, blonde hair and blue eyes fill the small square, with the name “Armie” written across the bottom. 

Timmy’s eyebrows furrow together as he tries to figure out who this “Armie” is - he glances at the rest of the meeting goers and takes a mental roll call of the C-Suite and their assistants to try to determine who had been missing. His brain fits the pieces together just as Armie’s deep voice explains, “I kept thinking this was at noon my time.”

Of course. Armie, Armand. His fingers go to run through his curls, forgetting he has headphones sitting atop his head. He chews on the corner of his lip instead. He has a long list of anxious habits, don’t worry, he won’t be set totally adrift if one isn’t available. 

His lip sacrifices itself as he tries to reconcile the Armand Hammer he has corresponded with all these months with the Armie who is now on his screen. 

He wasn’t sure who he was expecting based on the written interactions, but this Armie is younger and far better looking than the image created in his mind. He shakes his head slightly and closes his eyes. He should know, better than most, that appearances are deceiving. This is still the same guy who wrote those terse emails, who consistently needed to be reminded to complete the most basic of tasks so that Timmy and, in turn, Timmy’s boss could do his job, who openly denigrated his assistant to another assistant, and who cannot seem to understand the concept of time zones. He reopens his eyes and is able to see Armie the man who has risen to the top like countless mediocre heterosexual white men, failing upward, carried by unearned confidence. Timmy exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Armie’s voice carries over all the rest. “Luca, move your mouse across the bottom of the screen and find the button that says ‘mute all’ and click it. Everyone else, leave your microphones on mute and use the hand-raising option to speak. No, on mute, everyone, otherwise the background noise…. Is that a baby crying Greta? See, everyone’s background noise together, will just be, no, okay, leave it all on mute. I’m going to mute myself. Luca, please… you have the floor.” 

Timmy resists rolling his eyes. He’s worked really hard at managing these reactions, adjusting to a corporate environment, holding in his rants about “the man” and beliefs about being his authentic self no matter the audience. He turns his attention to taking notes on his laptop about what Luca is saying, and to each of the other chief officers when it's their turn to present projections for the company. Notes that he can later give to Nick, rather Mr. Delli Santi, who will praise Timmy’s attention to detail and concise summarizing. And Timmy will try with valiant effort to not allow a pink blush to warm his cheeks and bloom like a cloud inside his chest. His constant craving for praise is something he knows he needs to examine further. 

This not being the time to examine that, he lets himself take comfort in his role. He focuses on taking complete and accurate notes, although the word transcription may better capture what Timmy is doing. It’s a nice soft space where he can shut off his brain, it works too much overtime anyway, it’s not good for him, and he just lets his ears connect to his fingers. Later, he will re-engage his brain and make sense of the transcription, pulling out the important points, formatting everything, bolding each speaker’s name, underlining points that might be especially salient for Nick, placing action items in a bullet-points, ensuring an appropriate header and document title, all the details that help Timmy feel some sense of control, however, false that sense might be. 

Occasionally, his fingers find their way over to the bowl holding the apple slices and grab one, while he types, awkwardly, one-handed. The pink tip of his tongue pokes out from between his lips and his fingertips trail up to his lips where they meet and he sucks the juices off of them. He’s so absorbed in the task of transcribing, he doesn’t notice that his movements have caught at least one person’s attention. 

He keeps one ear on the conversation but his attention turned toward his transcription. He notes that assistants will be meeting weekly with each of the chief officers to raise any concerns from the partners they work for and to efficiently disseminate information back to the partners. 

There is probably a part of him that recognizes that the sounds of different voices coming from his tablet have slowly gotten fewer and quieter as the others in the meeting share wishes that the other remains safe and well and say good-bye. His attention instead focuses on beginning to reread his transcription and transforming it into the type of detail-oriented document that will bring a slightly baffled look to Mr. Delli Santi’s face and will earn him the praise that tickles those dopamine receptors, which, according to science, have finally had enough time to sort themselves out but still crave any type of attention. Praise will have to do. 

Definitely something he should examine further at some point. 

Maybe this quarantine will finally provide the type of time such introspection requires. Timmy knows keeping himself so busy, running after perfection in his job when the rest of his life is relatively empty (empty might be too kind, there are cobwebs growing), is it’s own type of problem, but he just wants to give himself a break from all the challenging shit he’s had to do in the name of health and personal growth. 

“Timothee...Timothee! TIMOTHEE!” A chanting of his name, growing ever louder and more insistent, finally grabs his attention away from his notes and to the screen beside his laptop. There Armie… no, Mr. Hammer’s face is peering into the camera, his eyes slightly narrowed, his mouth twitched up into a quarter smile. 

“Mr. Hammer,” Timmy breathes as he hits the button to unmute himself. He notices his, Mr. Hammer’s, and Mr. Guadagnino’s screens are the only ones still active. Although Mr. Guadagnino’s screen just shows the painting hanging up on the wall behind his chair, as he clearly got up and left when the meeting was done without formally ending it, which in his role “host” he could do and shut everyone’s access down. He could do and should have done to prevent this embarrassing moment for Timmy. 

“Please, call me Armie,” Armie smiles at him. 

“You never said,” Timmy mumbles, the words spilling like grains of sand from his lips.

“Sorry?” Armie quirks an eyebrow. “Never said what?”

Timmy feels his eyes widen, he dares a glance at the screen and Armie’s face, before looking down at the laptop keyboard. He feels a heat flush high on his cheekbones. “In your emails, you never said to call you Armie.” 

He errs on the side being overly formal, unusual for his generation, he knows. But he also navigates all types of social situations feeling as though everyone else was issued a rule book at some crucial time during their development when Timmy was off making poor choices with his life. 

Armie blinks and tilts his head, “In my emails I never said to call me Armie.” He repeats Timmy’s words back to him, less a question, more a statement, as though Timmy was not humiliated enough. 

His brows draw together, “I’m sorry Timothee. I should - I don’t always read emails that thoroughly.” Now he flushes a dusty pink andsuddenly that image is forever seared into Timmy’s brain. “As you could probably, well, you can probably tell. It’s an awful habit. I should have told you to call me Armie. I honestly, I didn’t notice how you addressed me.” 

It is possible to feel two things at once. Timmy has learned this, _is_ learning this. It is possible to hold two, sometimes conflicting emotions, in one pair of arms. He feels both completely humiliated that he has come across as presuming that the CFO should read emails from an assistant to an SVP closely and deeply gratified that Armie thought him worthy of the time and air it takes to make an apology. It’s hard to apologize, this Timmy knows. 

It’s his turn now. “I”m sorry. I didn’t realize that - well, I was absorbed in my notes - I didn’t realize that the others were, that the meeting was over.” 

_Fucking spit it out already,_ Timmy chastises himself.

Armie chuckles. And god if Timmy could have just had a moment’s warning so he could record that noise and listen to it when things get difficult, it is the purest sound he’s ever heard. “It’s okay, Timothee. You were clearly hard at work.”

And oh, Timmy hadn’t realized before, given the flood of embarrassment after embarrassment, that Armie pronounces his namely perfectly. Timmy tries not to be a snob, tries not to judge others who stumble over the syllables and are intimidated by the accent aigu, but when someone gets it correct, well it lands like praise in his convoluted brain. “Yes, yes, well I didn’t mean to keep you from…” his voice trails off, no one has anywhere to go these days, time stretches out in ways that can be dangerous for Timmy. “...From your work. I should, I should go. Finish these notes for Mr. Delli Santi and, um, yeah.” 

“Of course, Timothee. Have a good rest of your day,” Armie says kindly. More kindly than Timmy feels he deserves, ever. 

“You too, sir - ah Armie. Be well.” Timmy pokes his finger at the “leave meeting” button and lets out an exhale slowly through pursed lips. 

The meeting took longer than expected. Apparently, planning for moving the company forward through an unprecedented global crisis is not something that people have zero opinions about and everyone had wanted to be heard. And apparently this is not the sort of thing that can be planned for efficiently. Add to that the amount of time Timmy was lost in his work and Armie was...what? Watching him? Oh please let the floor open up and swallow him whole, Timmy feels as a sinking pit in his stomach. Because not only did _that_ happen but now he’s going to have to meet with Armie (and the other assistants, his mind adds, although he is uncertain if his mind means to be comforting or not) weekly.

He has some time but doesn’t really feel like finishing his notes. Mr. Delli Santi won’t expect them before Monday. He pushes his chair away from the table and stretches his legs out, loosens his tie and pops the top button of his shirt. Sighing, he looks around his apartment, which he can see nearly in its entirety from his vantage point. 

The table spread with various books, pamphlets, his tablet and laptop, and the now-empty bowl and mug. Beyond that is his bed, unmade despite all the articles he’s read since “safer-at-home” measures were put in place recommending that he make his bed each day. He not only doesn’t see the point, he prefers it unmade, obviously the set up was one that worked for him to fall asleep, not always a given thing for him, why mess it up? Across from his bed is his large flat screen television. Someone with an eye for design might say it’s too big for the space but Timmy bought it with his first paycheck and enjoys movies and video games, and felt that it was an indulgence meant to help him avoid other indulgences. Beyond that and out of his sight is the door to the bathroom, the pale yellow tile stained from years of abuse and the cubicle shower, which surprisingly has incredible water pressure, probably because the shower head was never changed out for one of those that are better for the environment. On the other side of his galley kitchen, is a long corridor that houses the only closet in the place, big enough for Timmy’s clothes and inoffensive. Opposite that is Timmy’s prized possession, beyond even his television and video game consoles. His bookshelf lines the entirety of the hallway and is overflowing with all the books Timmy has ever read and loved, their spines broken, their pages inked with notes and underlining and dogeared. 

Tim sighs again, hanging his head over the back of the chair and looking at the wall behind him upside-down. Maybe he will feel inspired to hang something up on the wall, on any of the walls, during this time. He considers the steps necessary and revises this into a more realistic goal - unless this goes on far longer than he anticipates, he probably won’t. 

He stands and pulls his tie off and unbuttons the rest of his shirt, shedding his work skin onto the chair. He pads in socked feet across to his bed in his joggers and t-shirt and flops down on his back. Closing his eyes, he tries to replay Armie’s laugh, tries to see his concerned eyes and his quarter smile behind his eyelids. Tries to determine the exact moment that he realized his impressions of Armie from their email correspondence, if it can be called that (can it? Probably not, correspondence implies some-something that does not exist, will never exist between them) were inaccurate. 

Later, after he had kicked his joggers off from his feet. After he had spit into his palm and fucked up into his fist and imagined Armie’s sea-blue eyes staring up at him, his part-smile wrapped around his cock. After he had bit down on the side of his hand to keep from whispering Armie’s name as warm come spurted out over his fist and onto his stomach. After he rolled over and wiped himself up with a dirty t-shirt, pulled up his joggers and pushed down his shirt, he walks back over to his table and touches the screen of his tablet, lighting it up. 

He pushes his headphones back onto his head, lets them serve as a headband for curls he really should have gotten trimmed before this self-isolation started, waits a moment for them to connect to the blue tooth and opens the Zoom application, making sure that the option to “mute all” is selected. He smiles into the camera while he waits for the meeting to populate. Promptly at 6 PM he looks into the camera and says, “Welcome to the Manhattan NA Happy Hour meeting, my name is Timmy and I’m an addict. I will be the secretary for the meeting. I’m glad you were all able to find your way here. Because this meeting is on Zoom this is how it will run…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am absolutely humbled by the reaction to this fic so far. Thank you all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added "past drug addiction" to the tags as it will continue to be a running theme. I am neutral on 12 step programs, although that recovery model is what is discussed throughout. Just know that I believe there are many paths to recovery. If you feel I've gotten something wrong, or just want to chat, please reach out in the comments or on tumblr.

Timmy has his first meeting with all the assistants and the CFO the next Wednesday afternoon. Just as the meeting is about to start, Mr. Hammer, _Armie,_ has to take a call and slides his desk chair out of the frame.

The assistants’ private Slack channel blows up. Timmy doesn’t participate, not totally convinced the executives and the partners can’t see their gossiping.

_“Do you think we’ll see his assistant LOL?”  
“Who’s his assistant?”_

Timmy remembers Armie describing her as incompetent, despite the kind eyes and half smile and the “Call me Armie.”

_“Wait - is she in here?”  
“LOL no.”  
“I don’t get it.”  
“People think she doesn’t exisit.”  
“Wait, what about Liz?”  
“No Liz is his girlfriend. Not his assistant.”  
“Liz?”  
“Yeah they’ve been together forever, at least since college. It’s kinda cute.”_

Timmy feels a sinking sensation without ever realizing he was floating.

_“So he doesn’t have an assistant?”  
“That’s the rumor.”  
“But why?”  
“I don’t know. Makes no sense.”  
“Shit he’s back.”_

Armie slides back in, “Hi there everyone. Sorry about that.” He chuckles. “So work from home, huh? Do we all have beverages now that day drinking is finally socially acceptable?”

He holds up a rocks glass filled with a familiar carmel-colored liquid and two perfectly square cubes of ice, the type that come from a special ice cube tray. Timmy feels the burn in the back of his throat, bites down on his back teeth, can practically taste the smokey-sweet of it.

The rest of the assistants hold up various glasses and bottles and Timmy feels the heat travel from the back of his throat to his cheeks as he debates for a moment before holding up his coffee mug. He thinks he sees Armie’s eyes flick in his direction, but with the Zoom set up, he can’t be sure. He hopes he doesn’t stand out for not having a drink in hand but also hopes he has somehow captured Armie’s attention. Armie says, “Cheers!” And Timmy squeezes his eyes shut, taking the opportunity that holding his mug up to his face affords him, and chastises himself for having any thoughts at all about the CFO of his company.

Armie runs the meeting efficiently and Timmy is grateful and impressed. Poorly run and useless meetings make him feel itchy with a desperate need to escape in a way little does anymore.

He makes announcements that affect all departments and then unmutes each assistant one by one so they can ask any specific questions they might have. Timmy takes the opportunity to begin to format his notes until it’s his turn. He’s learned his lesson and doesn’t allow himself to get too lost in the task, making himself take breaks to look up and check in, grab a few pistachios to crack open and place besides his coffee mug. He wipes his hands on his joggers and eats each pistachio one-by-one before turning back to his notes. He hears Armie clear his throat.

“So that just leaves...uh, Timothee for Nick.” That’s when Timmy realizes that Armie has excused each assistant as they have finished and he’s the only one remaining. “So Timothee, tell me about what’s going on in marketing?”

“Well, actually, Mr. Delli Santi doesn’t have anything for you, um, specifically this week,” Timmy focuses hard on not allowing his voice to inflect up at the end of the sentence. It’s not a question. “Is there anything you need me to pass along to him?”

Armie’s voice is rich and deep even over Timmy’s tablet speakers and Timmy wonders what it might sound like in person. What it might sound like with Armie’s mouth pressed up against his ear, so he could feel his breath hot against his skin, voice dropped to a whisper.

“No, but I do have a question for you,” the corners of Armie’s mouth tease at a smile.

“For me?” Timmy tries not to squeak like a teenage boy. He gives it a valiant effort but his teeth find his bottom lip and sink in and his eyes find the table in front of him. When all he hears is silence, he looks back up and finds an unreadable expression on Armie’s face. “For me sir? Armie?”

“What’s in the mug?” Armie’s face breaks out into a grin, like he and Timmy are in on some joke except Timmy feels like he missed the punchline.

“The mug?” He hates feeling stupid, he hates it. He feels like his skin is too small for his body. He wants to get up and walk away.

“That you’re drinking from?” Armie’s voice is kind, somehow. Like he knows what it feels like to not be in on the joke, although Timmy wonders how that’s possible. Men who look like Armie are always in on the joke, if not, in fact, the authors of the jokes.

“Oh that! That’s coffee?” _Not a question,_ he berates himself.

Armie’s eyebrows draw together and his eyes squint. “Coffee? Just coffee?”

“Uh yeah?” He feels tempted to peer inside the mug to make sure that the bitter liquid is still the same as when he poured it.

“No booze?” Armie gets to the punchline. And it feels like a punch. Timmy, the skinny queer kid, has avoided guys like Armie his entire life for this reason.

“Well no, I didn’t, I don’t - “ Timmy is about to tell the truth but. But something stops him from getting it out.

“I got it, don’t want to be drinking on the job.” Armie winks at him. He _freaking_ winks at him. “It’s the end of the work day now - what’s your poison? Wine? Liquor?”

“I, um, don’t have anything?” There it is. Said without confidence but the truth. Well part of it.

“Didn’t stock up?” Armie asks and Timmy wonders if he’s being tested, if not by Armie, by the universe.

“I was - was more focused on necessities. Like toilet paper and coffee.” Armie’s low rumble of a laugh pours into the north-facing studio apartment warming it up in a way the sun never is able to do. And Timmy feels like he has passed the test, whatever it was.

“I think we have different ideas of what constitutes a necessity.” Timmy swallows and stares at the screen, uncertain what the script is here. “So no, alcohol? What were you planning on doing with the rest of your evening?”

Timmy nods rapidly, grateful for the save. “I was going - going to cook dinner. I like to cook.” The last part comes out as a whispered admission.

“You like to cook.” Armie states this fact like he’s trying out the shape of it in his mouth. Timmy decides he likes this quirk of Armie’s. He likes it very much. “Tell me, does Timothee cook haute French cuisine?”

And that’s how Timmy winds up telling Armie about spending summers in the French country-side with his father’s mother, his grand-mere, learning the basics of how to cook. He doesn’t mention his regret that as a teenager he rebelled against these trips, telling his parents it would absolutely ruin his life to be separated over the summer from his friends, new friends having moved to the suburbs just before beginning high school. Doesn’t mention that he regrets his parents giving in, probably due to their guilt for the move, for Timmy not being able to attend the performing arts high school as a result. He regrets their giving in not only because of the paths that those summers allowed him to travel down but also because of the valuable time wasted not getting to know his grandmother when he could relate to her as more of an adult, when their cooking lessons may have progressed beyond omelettes and other such basics.

Armie asks about the secrets behind the perfect omelette, confessing his skills don’t extend much beyond the grill, and that’s how Timmy winds up plugging his tablet into an outlet by the stove and propping it up on the counter, about to give a cooking demonstration.

A tall woman, brunette hair pulled high into a ponytail, enters the screen, sliding under Armie’s arm and grabbing his drink to take a sip, the familiarity between them immediately evident. “Who’s this?”

“Oh this is Timothee,” Armie says as though he has already mentioned him at some point. As in:

“Nick’s new assistant, Timothee, is weirdly formal.”  
“That assistant, Timothee, is just as odd as I imagined.”

He speaks as Timmy is about to flip the omelette and Timmy can only spare a moment for brief eye contact and a short nod with a half smile before turning his attention back to the pan.

She does not say, “Oh this is Timothee.”

She says, “Hi Timothee, I’m Liz.”

Timmy has more time to spare and looks at the screen and smiles, “Timmy.”

Armie folds his lips in between his teeth as Liz cocks her head and asks, “Huh?”

“Uh, I mean, nice to meet you Liz. You can call me Timmy,” he gives an apologetic look to Armie. “I should have said so earlier.”

Armie releases his lips into a smirk, “You never said.”

Timmy mistimes his breathing and lets out a laugh, running out of air partway through, “I’m saying it now.”

Liz grins and looks between the screen and Armie. She squeezes his shoulder and excuses herself, “I’m going to go finish up my work.” Armie nods without glancing at her while Timmy calls out to her retreating back, “Bye Liz, nice to meet you!”

As Timmy plates his omelette and the asparagus he roasted as a side dish, Armie asks him what his plans are for the rest of the evening. “Or is that a stupid question, given…” He waves his hand around, gesturing at the general state of the world.

“Not stupid question, no.” Timmy reassures him. Glances at his watch, out of habit more than anything as the oven clock is right there. “My - uh - friend is calling me later, after dinner.”

Armie glances down at the table holding his laptop, or tablet, whatever device he is using. When he looks back up, he’s smiling but there’s something different about it from when he was joking with Timmy about their shared, secret, interest in the WWE. Timmy knows he’s kept Armie on the call for a long time, longer than he probably intended. Armie is likely grateful to have an excuse to do whatever it is he was going to do with the rest of his day.

He spreads a gigantic grin across his face, “Yeah my friend. I should, uh, go so I can eat before she calls.”

Armie runs a hand over his mouth and shakes his head slightly. “Of course. Have a good night Timo - Timmy.”

Timmy’s smile takes less effort this time. “You too Armie. Stay well, stay safe.”

He exits the meeting and carries his dish and a glass of water to the table.

After dinner, he washes the dishes even though he has a dishwasher. Living alone, he would run out of dishes before filling the dishwasher. He uses it instead as a drying rack. Preferring to keep his counters clear of clutter - appliances all live in the cupboards - save for his bowl of apples. He tries to balance the cheap formica that has loosened from its metal trim and no longer sits flush, with order, cleanliness.

To an extent. The bowl of pistachios and the shrapnel of empty shells remains on the table, to the side of his laptop.

His phone rings and he doesn’t need to check the caller ID.

Timmy crawls under the blankets of his unmade bed before answering, grateful that Saoirse makes these calls by telephone rather than FaceTime. “Hello?”

Saoirse’s happy lilt trills over the speaker. “Timo! How are you doing?”

“Sersh. Can you try to not sound so upbeat?” Timmy grumbles.

“What’s the matter?” Concern pours into her voice. If Timmy didn’t know her so well, it would sound inauthentic that she could so easily move from happy to worry. But he’s known her for over two years at this point. He knows that the very hint that someone she cares about, someone she’s committed to, isn’t well concerns her immediately. She doesn’t ease into it like some might a cold pool. She has learned there sometimes isn’t time to find the prettiest path to her destination, there might not be minutes to spare for tact.

Timmy let the silence hang between them, like wet laundry on a line.

She sighs. “Oh, did you have that meeting with the handsome man today?” She knows Timmy’s defects as well as he does, although she is far less judgmental.

“Let’s not call him the handsome man.” Timmy groans.

“Was he rude again?” Her voice is filled with the barbed wire of protection.

“No, worse.” He sighs. “He was nice.” Saoirse waits for him to expand. “He stayed online with me, talked with me while I made dinner. And we have stuff in common!” He smacks his forehead with his open palm. “Like stupid stuff too, like wrestling. Not like ‘oh we both like movies’ sorta shit that everyone has in common.”

“Oh Tim, you’re falling hard.” Saoirse is gentle with her words. Timmy’s dating life, or absence of any dating life beyond random hook-ups from apps that are certainly not healthy now, if they ever were (_for him,_ for him in particular they reinforced a long-standing belief about worthiness and love, and this is the source of the constant debate).

“No. He has a girlfriend, she’s really nice,” he laments.

“Hm.”

“What was that ‘hm?’” His voice creeping higher than it has any right to at his age.

“It’s interesting that the first man you fall for since getting clean is completely unavailable.” Her voice takes on a more detached tone, one that she reserves for this type of special torture. Timmy thinks that he should get some new friends.

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to be dating,” he’s whining, he knows he is. But his voice cracked without his consent and so he’s given up on trying to act his age.

“That’s in the first year, dumbass, it’s about time you got back out there. Well not _out_ there, not now.” Saoirse’s voice is back to normal, her regular loving sarcasm.

“Dumbass? Is this in your official role as sponsor?” Timmy snarks back.

“No, that's in my official role as best friend. In my official role as your sponsor, I would ask if your avoidance of anything remotely to do with being in an emotionally intimate relationship represents a compulsive behavior that replaces your addiction.” She has resumed her detached clinical tone.

Timmy sighs internally. Finding a new friend and a new sponsor would be too much effort, especially now. “Ugh fuck me, I like the best friend version better.”

Saoirse hums in response.

“And, um, I did something bad,” he whispers.

“Oh. Timmy. Whatever you did I’m sure it’s not as bad as it seems.” From someone else this might land like saccharine reassurance but Saoirse knows, if she’s not been a direct witness to, some of his worst behavior. He has, in fact, enumerated each of his bad decisions, each of the ways he has hurt others and himself, as part of his recovery, with her alongside, providing guidance but, more than anything, simply bearing non-judgmental witness as he grappled with feelings of guilt and shame, before coming to acceptance. An acceptance that is easier to tolerate some days more than others.

“Ididn’ttellhimI’mclean,” Timmy says all in a rush.

“Once more please,” she directs in a clipped tone, not allowing Timmy one inch to try to avoid himself.

“God, you really are a sadist, you know?” He groans. He knows she has his best interest at heart, he really does, but it never feels like that in the painful moment of having to stare at himself in the mirror, no filters, no best angles.

“No, just a very thorough sponsor. Same thing as a sadist but we make you fill out workbooks.” Timmy can hear her smirk through the telephone.

Timmy groans and throws his hand over his face. He’s washed his hands, it’s okay to touch his face. He takes a deep breath. “I didn’t tell him I’m clean.”

Saoirse waits.

“He made a joke about everyone day-drinking during the meeting and I just held up my coffee mug when everyone held up their beers or whatever.” The image of that amber liquid in that rocks glass floats through his mind, an unwelcome passenger. “And then, later, he asked me what was in the mug. And I told the truth.” Timmy nearly whines. “I did. But then he asked if I was quarantined without alcohol and I - I made a joke about focusing on the real necessities like toilet paper and coffee.”

“What did he say to that?”

“He said,” Timmy swallows against the regret in his throat. “He said he thought alcohol was a necessity. And I - I didn’t say anything. I just laughed.”

“Why?” She presses.

“Why what?” He procrastinates, willing away the mirror for just a moment longer.

“Don’t play dumb with me. It’s not a cute look on you. Why didn’t you tell him?”

“I need this job.” Timmy mutters.

“You think they’re going to fire you for being clean?”

And Timmy knows, _he knows,_ that it is illegal to fire him for a mental health diagnosis, especially one that is not interfering with his job. But he’s also smart enough, heard enough stories to know it never looks like discrimination. They never come right out and say you’re being fired for being an addict. It’s always being put in positions where he would be doomed to fail, an excuse is created, necessary documentation is completed.

“With my past...I need this job.”

“Timothee.” She gets the pronunciation correct, effortlessly. “Why didn’t you tell him?”

“I want him to like me,” he whispers.

A few days later, there’s a knock on his door. He peers out from the peephole and sees a delivery person standing back against his across-the-hall neighbor’s door. He opens the door and there’s a box with a digital scanner on top. The delivery person gestures towards it, “I need a signature. And proof that you’re twenty-one.”

Timmy leans over and signs the scanner using the stylus. He places it back down on the package and tells the delivery person to wait while he finds his wallet. His hands are shaking and there’s a cold sweat on his forehead. He wonders if he should wash his hands after touching the stylus but before he touches his wallet and then wash them again after showing his identification to the delivery person, putting it back in his wallet, then picking up the package and bringing it inside? And then again after opening the package? It’s all so confusing.

But that’s not why he’s trembling and sweating. It’s. He didn’t order anything. He doesn’t know who would be sending him something. He especially doesn’t know who would be sending him something that requires him to be of legal drinking age.

He gets the package inside and onto his counter. He grabs a knife out of the silverware drawer and slides it along the tape. He lifts an envelope from the top of styrofoam bricks. It’s made with heavy paper stock and the note inside matches. On the top, in a simple font, reads: Armand D. Hammer. He briefly wonders what the “D” stands for before reading what’s written below, in a neat, tight, script that surprises him:

_Timothee,_

_I wouldn’t want you to be without the necessities._

_Armie_

He pries the styrofoam bricks out of the box, wincing at the squeaking noise they make as they brush against each other. Carefully packaged between the styrofoam is a bottle of Blanton’s single barrel bourbon. His mouth and throat run dry. Even when he was a drinker, Blanton’s, despite the ridiculous price tag, was never his favorite, too spicy. Nonetheless, he appreciates that Armie pegged him as a bourbon drinker. He appreciates the extravagant thought. He wonders if it means something or if something like this is the equivalent of buying a friend a cup of coffee after a meeting rather than both of them trying to force down the sludge they serve for free. Most likely it’s that. The price is next to nothing for Armie and the gesture is just one of friendship. If that.

Either way.

Either way, he knows himself. He slides his cell phone out of his pocket and then drops it on the counter. He washes his hands trying to not rush the count of twenty, before drying them and picking up his phone again.

It rings on the other line just twice before he hears that familiar voice answer. “Mama? Mama, I need some help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments so far. I'm absolutely amazed. Each one is like a little point of connection in this otherwise isolating time. I hope you and those you love remain safe and well. 
> 
> The next chapter will be Armie's POV


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank each person who reached out to me to share their experience of addiction or the addiction of a loved one. It means so much to hold your trust in that way. If stories of addiction or homophobia may be triggering to you (and please in this time especially be compassionate with yourself) please read the rest of this note.
> 
> This chapter tells both Armie and Timmy’s backstories. The parts of Timmy’s story that deal directly with his addiction are set off by double asterisks (**) on each end. Armie’s story is interwoven throughout and contains two instances of the f-slur, both contained within the asterisks. (Apologies for those using screen readers. I hope the use of asterisks in this case is not too disruptive, if there's another way to indicate this section that works better with screen readers, please do let me know.)

Armie feels the couch dip next to him. “Armie? Armand?”

“Mmm?” He doesn’t shift his gaze from where it is resting looking out on the horizon at the waves crashing against the sand. He has lost track of how long he has been sitting there staring, but it feels good, like a stretch for his eyes and brain. His mind has been turning over this stone for so long it has worn smooth, but like a talisman or good luck charm, he feels reluctant to drop it. 

“I’ve been calling your name for a full minute.” He finally turns and glances at Liz, taking a sip of his coffee, finding it has turned cold while he has been lost in thought. “Where did you go?”

Armie sighs and admits, “I sent him bourbon.”

Liz searches his face for a moment before putting together the pieces. “Oh Armie.” She rests her head against his shoulder. “He is very beautiful, isn’t he?” 

“Yeah.” Armie sets down his chilled coffee and slides his back down along the couch until his head can rest against the top, nudging Liz from her spot on his shoulder. “Yeah, he is.”

“But he’s - “ Liz’s mouth turns down with a concern. 

“He’s an assistant to a VP. I’m his boss’s boss. It’s entirely inappropriate,” he fills in the rest. 

Liz turns her body perpendicular to his, resting her back against the arm of the couch. She prods his thigh with her toes. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Armie rolls his head to glance at her and then rolls it back. He has never introduced Liz as his girlfriend, he has never lied about what they are. He talks to the ceiling. “He hasn’t responded.” Liz waits, they’ve known each other since they were eighteen, she knows he needs time to unravel his thoughts, before paying them out, like a rope, into the space between them. “It arrived this morning.” He has the tracking information, had alerts set, knew the moment Timmy signed for the package, and has watched the clock since then. “This morning his time,” he clarifies because right now it’s that hazy time between late morning and early afternoon. 

She slips her toes under his thigh. “He might not know how to respond,” she pauses, weighing her next words carefully. “He’s young.” She knows his type. 

“And oddly formal,” Armie notes, not quite certain if this is an argument for or against immediately contacting someone who has sent a gift. Perhaps he will have to wait for a thank-you-note in the mail, the type his parents made him write and send after receiving any gift. He likes Timmy’s formality, he likes seeing it slip even more. 

“I don’t think Miss Manners covered how to respond to an inappropriate gift from your boss’s boss during a quarantine for a global pandemic,” Liz says with a small smile and Armie isn’t sure if it’s meant to be teasing or comforting. 

“Is it that inappropriate? Everyone gets gifts for their assistants at year-end, in addition to their bonuses. Nick got him an ipad, for fuck’s sake.” He knows he just called it inappropriate himself but there’s always the hope of putting something like that out there and being told you’re wrong. Like fishing for a compliment. He glances at her to receive the expected and earned eye-roll. They both know all the ways in which this is different. 

“Oh, he’s Nick’s assistant,” Liz knows Nick likes to hire beautiful, handsome young men. He has never, would never, do anything inappropriate, but his assistants are always men and are always attractive. She doesn’t dwell on that. Nick is one bit of their shared past that Armie has not been completely truthful about but he hasn’t lied either. They are always honest with each other, them against the world. Or, rather, them against Armie’s world. “Why did you send it?”

“I just - I like him. I wasn’t - I would never…” Armie doesn’t need to finish that thought, they both know how carefully he has built his life. He might enjoy encounters with men, not now, of course, not under quarantine, but he would never risk bringing that into his work life. Those experiences exist separately, anonymously, apart from everything else he is. Not that it matters, but he adds, “He’s dating someone, I think.”

They sit together, as they have before, countless times. Liz calm and ready with comfort but refusing to coddle, while Armie’s insides twist around themselves, like bedsheets around his legs on a restless night. There was a time, before, long before, when he would have been alone in this, before Liz waltzed into his freshman dorm room and his life, her huge smile lighting up the small space. He has never had to be alone since. That first winter break he begged her to come with him to his family’s estate, introducing her to them simply as “This is Liz” but also knowing what conclusions they would happily draw. She was welcomed for every break from college after that, her presence providing relief to his family.

Armie’s phone rings from his pocket and he turns wide-eyed to Liz, who raises her eyebrows and gives a short nod of her head but doesn’t move from her spot. Armie lifts his hips to grab it and glances at the number. It is not one saved in his contacts but he can tell from the area code it is a NYC cell phone. He clears his throat, “Hello?”

“Hello, is this Mr - ah - Armie?” Timmy’s uncertain voice comes over the line. 

“This is he. Hello? Timmy?” 

“Yes. Oh, I’m sorry, I got your number from the office contact list. I probably shouldn’t’ve,” his words bump into each other as they spill from his lips. 

“No, no, it’s fine. I got your address from the same list so.” Armie runs his hand through his hair, he hadn’t even thought twice before doing so but now realizes that is another boundary he simply stepped over carelessly. He is a mixed bag, Armie, both exceedingly careful and incredibly impulsive. Necessity has made a contradiction of him. 

“Oh, right, of course,” Timmy responds and seems to wait. 

“You did get the bourbon, right? That’s why you’re calling?” Armie doesn’t know how else to keep the conversation going. Hopes that this comes across as though he’s just making sure the package arrived (as if he hadn’t been tracking it since he mailed it, as if he hasn’t been counting the minutes since Timmy signed for it) rather than prompting Timmy for a thank you, like Miss Manners, like a parent.

“I did - I did. And thank you...that was, it was very thoughtful.” 

“So you’re set with the necessities… for now.” Armie feels like a door has been opened and he can joke now.

“Um, well, I should have told you. This is my fault, I knew I should have, I just didn’t think that, shit!” Timmy’s voice is full of upset anger.

“Tim-Timmy?” Armie feels a cold sweat start to bead on his upper lip. He glances at Liz, his eyes wide and wild. “Is everything - are you okay?”

He hears Timmy take a deep breath. “I am, I am okay, Armie. There’s just something I should have told you. I didn’t think, I didn’t think it would…” Timmy’s voice trails off and Armie is lost, he needs a beacon, a point on the horizon to orient himself. 

“Timmy, are you on an iphone?”

“Yeah - yes.” 

“Could I - may I FaceTime you?”

“I would rather you didn’t, Armie,” Timmy’s voice is quiet, but firm. Armie pauses, he begins to sweat a little. But he pauses, gives Timmy space, knows what a gift space and time to breathe and think can be. “I’m a - “ Timmy takes a breath, one loud enough that it’s audible over the phone. “I’m an addict, I don’t drink,” he says softly, but the words land like needles, pricking all over Armie’s skin. “I,” he sighs, “I gave the bottle to my parents. But,” the next words rush out of his mouth, “Thank you for it, it was exceedingly generous and thoughtful.”

“Except not at all thoughtful,” Armie tries to keep the bitterness out of his tone. Bitter with self-recrimination of exactly how inappropriate the gift was. Not at gift at all, really, he thinks. “God.”

“I’m clean, shit, I should have said that,” Timmy groans. “I’m clean, have been for two years, this won’t interfere with my job.”

“Timmy I - I wasn’t even thinking about that.” Armie is quick to reassure him, it’s the truth anyway. He hadn’t been thinking of Timmy and isn’t that just the theme of this whole debacle. “I know you’ve been nothing but responsible with your job.”

“I - I have been?” Timmy’s voice suddenly sounds small, young, as though he is looking for something from Armie and Armie wants to give him whatever it is he wants. 

“Yes,” Armie hurries to say. “At least, at least from my perspective.”

Timmy lets out a breath all in a whoosh. “Thanks...I need this job,” he admits.

“You need this job,” Armie repeats and something clicks into place. “Timmy, did you think I would fire you if you told me… if you told me you don’t drink? That you’re an, an addict?” The word feels awful leaving his mouth. The type of word he grew up hearing with derision, never with the compassion his family’s faith claimed to teach. Like calling someone “queer,” sometimes it was hard to use the words someone else uses to describe themselves, even when Armie knew it was right. 

Next to him, Liz raises her eyebrows and nods at Armie before extracting herself from under his legs and leaving the room, heading downstairs to her office. 

“I don’t know,” Timmy’s voice is barely above a whisper. “I know how much stigma there is and I don’t have any, this is my only work experience.”

“Your only,” Armie finds himself about to repeat Timmy’s words, again. He hates this habit he has, one that seems to worsen whenever he speaks to Timmy. “But you’re…” He doesn’t want to admit he looked at Timmy’s birthday on the contact list, did the math, figured out his age, tried to determine if it was inappropriate to...what exactly? Armie isn’t sure. 

Timmy’s voice has a kind tone when he responds to Armie, as though he’s used to this, sharing intimate details of his life, pieces of himself most would consider private. “I’m two years clean, Armie, and I’m twenty-four. I pretty much spent the years since graduating from college getting clean and staying clean. This is my first job.”

“Oh, right, of course. I can’t imagine, I don’t know what goes into getting clean. I don’t know what you.” Armie bites off the rest of his words, chides himself for wanting to ask more questions, wanting to know more about Timmy. He doesn’t have a right to it. 

**

“My parents moved from the city to the suburbs when I was finishing middle school,” Timmy shares and Armie isn’t sure where this is going, what this has to do with anything. But he will listen to Timmy talk about anything, forever, so he lets him continue. Tries not mar it with his questions, his interjections. 

Armie recalls his own experiences in middle school. Before he had hit his growth spurt, which made him stand out in other ways. When he was a short round kid who didn’t know many pop culture references but loved movies and wanted to be in them. Before he had hit his growth spurt but after he had told his parents that he wanted to be an actor and been told in no uncertain terms that he had a responsibility to his last name, to his legacy, and acting was no way to fulfill that obligation. Besides, his mother said in harsh tones and through pursed lips, only faggots become actors. 

“I was supposed to go to a performing arts high school but instead I was in the suburbs where all the kids played sports and made fun of this new skinny quirky kid,” Timmy continues quietly. “It’s stupid, everyone gets bullied, but I never had been before. I didn’t have any type of tough exterior, I took it all in. I was so lonely.” Timmy inhales, exhales. “But then in my freshman year, there was this guy, who…”

As Timmy’s voice trails off, Armie feels something like a spade suddenly take up residence in his throat, wanting to simultaneously scoop out his insides and dig a hole to disappear into. He doesn’t want to hear about this guy, not in this story. 

“He was willing to spend time with me. He was older, had this group of friends who seemed so cool, you know?” Armie does, he recalls his own high school experience, once he returned from the summer when he shot up and now towered above everyone and suddenly was deemed good-looking enough to at least be ignored. “They drank, smoked, uh got high. So I did too. And finally fit in, not just with them, but with myself, like in this way I hadn’t since before we moved. It was,” he huffs a half-laugh, “well, it was addictive. And this guy,” clears his throat, “Ansel, well he was always kind to me. And at some point I guess we started hooking up?” He asks it like a question but what he really means is, is this okay? Is this something you will accept too?

“I’m glad he was kind to you,” Armie makes sure his voice is gentle, he doesn’t let these feelings, feelings he has no right to, seep in and infect it. He is glad Timmy was treated well. He is.

Timmy spits out a laugh like rusty nails, “Well he was kind to a point. He never let me say we were dating, never let me tell anyone we hooked up. But he was really nice to me when I broke my arm, when I got a big prescription of the ‘good stuff’ with several refills.”

“What’s the good stuff?” Armie doesn’t know. For him the good stuff is expensive whiskey and occasionally some weed. 

“Percocet, Armie, the good stuff was Percocet. Ninety of them with three refills and fuuuuck,” he draws the word out in a way that Armie longs to see the shape of on his mouth, “combined with alcohol and the weed? I didn’t just finally feel okay, like fit in, I felt good.”

“And did Ansel…” Armie doesn’t know how to phrase the question. He remembers feeling like he fit in, when he met Nick, his freshman year. Another tall good-looking guy who was also interested in movies. They spent all their time together. Armie had never been close friends with another guy, had never really had close friends at all. 

Until the night in Nick’s dorm room when they were watching some movie. Not some movie, Armie remembers it all, every detail. They were watching _Pulp Fiction,_ celebrating the ten-year-anniversary of its release, and when Fabienne bemoaned having to get buttermilk pancakes instead of blueberry, Nick laughed and leaned into Armie. The heat of his skin pressing into, through, Armie’s thin t-shirt, bringing with it his heart pounding so loudly he could no longer hear Butch’s response. And when Nick inhaled and on his exhale wrapped his arm, hairy, long, and muscular, no doubt of his masculinity, around Armie, Armie’s mind went blank. Blank except for his mother’s face, lips pursed, the word “faggot” pushed through them like something unwanted, unloved. And so Armie shifted, Nick’s arm dropping back between them, and made some excuse about going back to his room. And that winter break, he invited Liz to come to his family’s house. 

“Ansel, he was happy to help me use up all those pills and, then, when they were finished, to help coach me on what to say to my doctor to get more. The thing is, it wasn’t a lie, my arm still ached, this deep bone ache. What I didn’t know then was that in just a few months of pretty regular opiate use, my brain had sprouted more dopamine receptors and they just needed more and more and more.” Timmy sighs. “Eventually they put me on oxy. That was, uh, my junior year. And Ansel was going to community college, so he had less time for me. And I was running through my prescription way faster than I could get it refilled each month, because suddenly I was alone again. So I started buying from dealers. When I did see Ansel, we were mostly getting high together and fucking,” the word sounds dirty and angry, “but I fooled myself into thinking we were together, that keeping it secret was romantic. I was a stupid kid.”

Armie has never lied to Liz. When they graduated and he started his MBA program, he invited her to a cousin’s wedding. “They’ll all think I’m your date,” she responded. “I know,” he said. “But won’t this, won’t it hurt you?” she worried. “It will hurt me more if you - if I don’t,” he reassured her. And he reassured her for years, and again when he bought the house in Malibu, with enough rooms for each of them plus one for her office and a guest room, and asked her to move in. 

He’s never introduced Liz as his girlfriend, he’s never lied about what they are. But he’s never told the truth either. 

He doesn’t have an especially warm relationship with his family. Not the type where he could ask them to pick up a bottle of bourbon because he was afraid he would drink, not like that at all. But it is the only family he has and he is terrified to lose them. He can put this piece of himself in a tidy little box, feed it every so often, just enough to not kill it, if it meant he could have a family who was proud of him and the choices he made. Who celebrated his hiring at Ivory Advertising and his promotions all the way up to Chief Financial Officer. And he has learned, no amount of success is enough to outweigh who he truly is. At no point will who he is be acceptable to them just because he’s finally brought enough honor to the family name. 

So Armie knows secrets. But at least he doesn’t keep anyone but himself a secret. At least he doesn’t keep any secrets from Liz. 

“And then Ansel graduated from community college and was going away to school,” Timmy says, his words heavy like rocks in his mouth. “And I,” he lets out another bitter laugh, more rusty nails. “I was the idiot who asked if we were going to date long-distance. He wasn’t kind.”

When Timmy sniffles, Armie decides it is best if he never meets this Ansel. Better if he never even knows his last name. 

“I - I overdosed that night,” Timmy’s voice drops but then he rushes to say, “accidentally. I had an accidental overdose and when I was, before I passed out I made a video and sent it to Ansel.” He groans softly. “At least I thought I was just sending it to Ansel, but I sent it to a group text instead and fucking outed myself, outed Ansel… just it was bad.” 

“I’m sorry, Timmy,” those words sound paltry, insufficient compared with what Timmy has gone through but he can’t find more words, better words, when his heart is breaking. 

“Thanks,” Timmy acknowledges, understands that Armie’s words were a chance to pause, catch his breath, and continue. “My parents found me and _fuck_ no parent should have to see their kid that way but also thank god, you know?” Armie doesn’t want the images that come to his mind uninvited and he knows. “And the video had made it to enough students that the administration was aware of it, alerted my parents. So they, everyone, thought it was a suicide attempt.”

“Was it?” It feels like an invasive question but Armie has come to realize that Timmy has told this story many times, that this is a purging in a sense and the invasion is welcome, helping him dig out whatever might remain of the disease. 

“No, it wasn’t. But,” his voice dips back down to a whisper, “but I let them think it was. I thought, I thought that was better than knowing how much I was using. I thought if I told them, they would take it away, and then I would have nothing.”

“Take what away?”

“The drugs.” Timmy allows that confession to sink in for a moment before, “More than losing Ansel, I was terrified of losing the drugs. Fuck, I was more in love with them than I had been with Ansel. Or,” he rushes to say, “What I thought was love. I don’t know if that’s what that was.” 

Armie too isn’t sure what love is.

“So I went to a psychiatrist, got more pills, went to therapy. My doctors wouldn’t prescribe me oxy anymore but it didn’t matter, I already had dealers. The rest of high school was pretty lonely - I was outed, I no longer had the few friends I had through Ansel, they were all graduated, I didn’t have him anymore either. But I still had drugs and so I never felt as miserable as I was.” 

“But you got out? You went to college?” 

“Yes, I got out and went to college. I honestly don’t know how I passed - I was high nearly all the time, drunk every night, but I graduated.” He clears his throat. “Somewhere during those four years, I got well...the expression is I got sick and tired of being sick and tired. Eventually, I wasn’t chasing a high, I was staving off the worst kind of sickness. I would try everything to get clean, tapering down, going cold turkey, using other drugs to try to get me through the shakes, and the fevers, and the chills, and the full-blown panic, and the non-stop crying. It’s, it’s fucking impossible is what it is. Narcotics break your brain.”

**

“But you did it somehow?” Armie knows he did, he’s peeked ahead to read the ending of the book but he still wants to know how it got there. 

“Yeah, yeah I did. I’m really lucky. My parents wanted to get me a trip to Europe or something for my graduation and I asked to go to rehab instead. Way more expensive and they didn’t get any fun souvenirs.” Armie gets the sense that this joke is recycled from other times Timmy has told his story, but he doesn’t mind. It makes him feel included somehow. “And, yeah, so now I’m clean.” He laughs in a self-conscious way as if he’s suddenly aware that he’s shared his story with his boss’s boss and Armie gets it, he would be self-conscious too. Except he doesn’t want Timmy to be self-conscious, not of anything but certainly not from something like this. 

“Timmy, I’m - I’m...thank you for trusting me with this,” Armie may know that Timmy is used to telling his story but he guesses he’s usually speaking to other addicts, to close friends, to family. He certainly did not have to lay himself bare for Armie. “To have been through all this and survive, no, really thrive,” he laughs, his nerves pricking through, “I hope you consider the work you’re doing thriving.”

“Oh I do, I do.” Armie can picture Timmy nodding his head, it brings a smile to his face. 

“It’s incredible really. You’re incredible.” Armie takes the risk, after all he owes Timmy at least that much.

“I am? You think I’m incredible?” Timmy sounds breathless.

“You are,” Armie’s voice is deep and confident. “I hope you have people telling you that, your girlfriend, at least.”

“My girlfriend?” Timmy’s voice squeaks at the end of the question. 

“Yeah you said - you had a phone date the other night?” Armie is sure he remembered correctly Timmy saying “My, uh, friend” and the sinking disappointment he felt. 

“What? Oh! No, she’s - that’s Sersh. She’s my NA sponsor.” Timmy lets out what sounds to be a genuine laugh. 

Armie laughs and hopes the relief isn’t evident. He has no reason to be relieved. He should want Timmy to be in love, to be loved, he deserves to be loved. “So you have a sponsor, stil, and you’ve been clean for… two years, you said?”

“It’s a lifelong relationship, longer than many marriages,” Timmy clarifies. “And, uh, my clean date was November 27. I asked to go to rehab but, yeah, it took a few months before all of me was ready to change. So yeah, I’ve been clean two years, four months, three days, and thirty-nine seconds.”

“You count the seconds too?”

“Sometimes you need to see those seconds pass, Armie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you skipped over parts to take care of yourself - I’m so happy you did. Self-care can be a radical act. 
> 
> Here’s a quick summary: Armie comes from a homophobic family and has decided to hide his sexuality. Liz is essentially his best friend from college who has agreed to be his beard for the outside world. Armie and Nick knew each other in college as well and Nick made a very gentle pass at Armie in their freshman year, which Armie fled. Timmy was bullied after his parents moved from the city to the suburbs. He fell in with a Not Good Crowd thanks to Ansel and began experimenting with alcohol and drugs. Ansel and Timmy hooked up in secret. Timmy broke his arm and that started his addiction to narcotics. Timmy was in his junior year when Ansel finally ended things. Timmy sent a video to Ansel that wound up going to the whole school, leading to him being outed. Timmy also had an accidental overdose but let his parents think it was a suicide attempt. As a result, he doesn’t get treatment for drug addiction until he graduates college. He asks to go to rehab as a graduation present and at the time of this chapter, he’s got over two years clean time. 
> 
> Thank you all for your comments and kudos. The more I develop these characters the more I love them and I’m so honored by your feedback.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you look back at Chapter 1, you’ll notice I put an “inspired by” for this fic. It has been inspired by _Slow Show_ by mia_ugly in the Good Omens fandom. It is an incredible work of art that I encourage everyone to read. 
> 
> This chapter was a bit of a beast. Thank you to those who listened to me as I fought the words. You know who you are. 
> 
> Thank you for all the comments and kudos - I am honored by each one.

The email comes the next morning. 

March 31, 2020

To: all@ivory.com

Hello All:

It has been brought to my attention that given our current status of working from home, there have been instances of drinking alcohol during work hours and that this has been either implicitly or explicitly encouraged by some supervisors and executives. I would like to remind each of you of company policy (please see policy and procedures manual, p. 23, para. 4) about drug and alcohol use during work hours.

If you believe you, or a loved one, is struggling with addiction SAMHSA’s National Helpline, 1-800-662-HELP (4357), or TTY: 1-800-487-4889, is a confidential, free, 24-hour-a-day, 365-day-a-year, information service, in English and Spanish.

Stay safe, stay home. 

With warm regards,  
Luca

Chief Executive Officer  
Ivory Advertising

Timmy feels the tops of his cheekbones heat up and he drops his head in his hands, elbows resting on his dining room table, and groans. He looks up at his laptop and enters the Zoom meeting, knowing his participation will be distracted at best. It’s a small meeting so it’s hard to go unnoticed but at least he doesn’t have a commitment like with the Friday night meeting. 

He keeps himself on mute during the recitation of the serenity prayer, half mumbling it to himself. The spiritual (not religious) aspects of the twelve-step community put him off at first, his lizard brain using it as another reason to not fully pursue recovery. He doesn’t believe in god but over the years has come to believe in himself, the self that emerges when he is still, when he really listens, guides him back to his breath, back to the here-and-now and the only task ahead of him, the next logical step, and making the decision to stay clean. It is the part of him that asked his parents to send him to rehab. 

He half-listens to the speaker and the sharing by the other participants and he cracks pistachio after pistachio, not hungry just needing something to do with his hands, with this restless energy. He knows Saoirse is in the meeting too and isn’t surprised when his phone rings just moments after the intonations of “it works, if you work it” and “keep coming back” and “stay safe!”

“Hey,” he mumbles into the phone, wishing he had connected his headphones so he could make dinner. He wedges the phone between his ear and shoulder and walks over and opens the refrigerator door and stares.

“What’s going on?” Saoirse demands. Timmy pauses and she immediately rushes to head him off at the pass. “And don’t try to bullshit me, I don’t have the patience for it tonight.”

He would ask what’s going on, if everything is okay, but their sponsor relationship is a one-way street. Support flows through Saoirse to Timmy and not back the other way, his only responsibility is doing the work of staying clean. If it’s something really important, something that he would need to know (_if she was sick_ flashes through his mind and he immediately dismisses it, as if the faster he can get the thought out of his head, the less likely it will be to come true) she would tell him, not wait on the formality of him asking. 

He sighs, “He told Mr. Guadagnino, my boss.” He’s mentioned Luca before but doesn’t expect her to memorize all the people in his life, especially those who only make rare appearances. He does not have to clarify who “he” refers to. He closes the refrigerator door without taking anything out and walks back to the chair by the table and slumps in it. 

“He _told_ your boss?” Her voice drops in anger. 

“Well, no. I don’t know. He told him enough that everyone was emailed a reminder that drinking on the job isn’t allowed,” he admits. He doesn’t truly believe that Armie shared any part of Timmy’s story with their boss; he doesn’t want to believe he would. 

“So he told on himself,” Saoirse clarifies. 

“I guess,” he draws the “s” out. “He shouldn’t have.”

“Why not? What he did was against company protocol, encouraging all the assistants to drink like that.” Her voice softens, “Not to mention dangerous.”

“It wasn’t dangerous, I’m fine,” Timmy insists. He is, he’s fine. Well, not fine, but that’s not because of Armie. Or, it is because of Armie, but...oh fuck this. He wishes he could turn his thoughts off sometimes. 

“You’re fine, Timmy, but you don’t know who else might be an addict,” she points out. 

“Right.” He feels self-absorbed in never considering that others might also be struggling. Logically he knows it could be true, but it doesn’t feel true. Being clean at twenty-four feels very lonely, with constant invitations to happy hours on the assistants’ Slack channel. He wonders what they think of him, the other assistants. At times he feels that old feeling of not fitting in, like when he first moved. It’s a slippery feeling, he knows this, reminds himself that fitting in isn’t everything, reminds himself of the corners he used to cut off from himself until he did fit in but no longer recognized whom he saw in the mirror anymore. Between the two, being alone is safer. 

“But that’s not what’s troubling you…” She gives him space to reflect. He hates space to reflect. Nevermind what he thought earlier about appreciating time and space to listen to himself. He was lying. It’s shit. 

“I don’t want him to get in trouble,” he admits. 

“Even though he went against company policy?” She presses, pushes him into a corner where the only way out is looking in that mirror, seeing himself. 

“Yeah,” he admits, pushing the word out from behind his teeth where he wants to hold it, safe from examination. 

“Even though it was his choice to talk to your boss?” She holds the mirror closer. 

“Yeah,” another sacrifice, another piece revealed. 

“You can’t do this, Timmy. You can’t go around trying to control everyone like this.” She knows him, knows his desire for control. Predictability. She doesn’t blame him but she makes him look, examine, excavate. He wants a new sponsor. 

“Not everyone.” It’s a truth so big it is redundant to say it. Of course not everyone. 

“No, you’re right. Not everyone.”

“Thanks for calling Sersh.”

“Anytime, Timo.”

He hangs up, drops his head in his hands, elbows resting on his dining room table, and groans.

The next day on the weekly call with Armie, he isn’t surprised when he’s once again left for last. They get through the business side of things quickly, just a few updates on accounts from Mr Delli Santi and a question about the art department budget. Armie then clears his throat, twists off the top of a water bottle, which looks miniature in his hands, and takes a drink. Timmy tries to avoid watching the movement of his throat and instead his hands fly up to brush away absent curls, already held back by his headphones, and then raises a single eyebrow. Armie licked his lips and stared back with pool-blue eyes. 

“Did you - “ 

“Why did you - “ 

“Go ahead,” Armie’s voice sounds like the sun streaming in through his windows behind him, lighting him up like a religious icon. 

“No, please, Armie, you first.” It’s a tactical decision, one Timmy has refined from his years of feeling on the outside, a spy among his peers, to gather information and learn the lay of the land, the language spoken and the traditions among locals, before engaging. 

“Did you get Luca’s email?” Armie smiles a half-smile, an almost proud smile, like he wants the final push from Timmy to feel proud of doing the right thing. 

“Yes, that’s, uh, that’s what I wanted to talk to, ask you about.” Armie gestures a hand at Timmy, an invitation to speak that lodges like stone in Timmy’s gut. “What did you - why did - what did you say to Mr. Guadagnino? Because what I told you - I thought that you - “

“Timmy, hey, hey. I didn’t tell him anything about you. I wouldn’t, would never.” The corner’s of Armie’s mouth turn downward and the pools turn to a choppy ocean, waves breaking, cautioning a storm coming. The sun sets in his voice and it takes on a night-dark serious tone. “I told him that I had encouraged day-drinking and I later realized that it not only was against company policy but it could be dangerous. You know there are all these articles coming out about, like, how to stay healthy during this and…” 

Armie continues talking but the word “dangerous” clangs around in Timmy’s head, an echo of his conversation with Saoirse the night before. He nods, a small short nod, once, twice, and again. Armie pauses, “Timmy?” 

“Huh? Yeah, sure,” he is still distracted for a moment before coming fully back into the present. “Yes, you’re right Armie. Thanks for speaking to Mr. Guadagnino - for everyone else, anyone else who might be struggling. And I - for the record - I didn’t actually think you told him about, you know, me. I didn’t think that.”

Armie’s face smooths out, the waters still, the sunshine returns. “Good.”

Just that word sends something like lightning down Timmy’s spine. The soft start and the hard ending in Armie’s canyon-deep voice, the shape of it on his mouth, like his lips can’t help but curl like pages in a book left out in the ocean-damp air, the whites of his pointy canines peeking through. And Timmy wants to know what other words look like in Armie’s mouth, how the sound of them lands in his ears. He wants to curl up around a pillow and let Armie read him the dictionary. 

He shakes his head, a curl breaking free of his headphones. Armie had more important things to do. He had already wasted so much of his time. And wasted indeed since of their two conversations one was definitely Timmy monologuing his recovery story. Too few words from Armie, although the kindness of Armie’s willingness to listen, to appear interested, to even thank Timmy for trusting him, wraps around him like a blanket but one that is almost tucked too tightly, is too warm. He’s not used to it, that type of soft-pillow landing. Settles more easily into Saoirse’s firm edges and even that took some adjusting. Feels more comfortable with edges that slice, the pain is familiar, he knows what to do with it, how to hold its shape.

He’s ready to thank Armie again. For what he does not actually know. But thanking someone is an acceptable way to end a conversation that he doesn’t want to end but must and a “so thank you, have a good rest of your day” is inoffensive, no one ever looking too closely at that type of thank you, trying to decide if they earned it or not. 

But the conversation continues. And Armie calls him the next evening, on FaceTime this time, clearly using his phone’s history from the other day. And eventually, slowly, Timmy begins to call Armie. 

They get to know each other and it goes like this. 

They begin to text each other when they see something funny. 

Timmy sends Armie a screenshot and a crying emoji when he gets the news that an off-Broadway play that a childhood friend was starring in and Timmy had tickets to attend is finally cancelled rather than postponed. 

They drink coffee together on weekend mornings, a little earlier than Armie would normally get up and a little later than Timmy usually has his first cup. Timmy digging his toes into the soft comforter on his bed, his curls wild from sleep, propping his phone up on a pillow, holding his mug between his hands. Liz joins Armie on their couch and tells Timmy about her work as a photographer, her focus on abandoned buildings in once majestic downtowns, picking up the phone to show Timmy photos of the Detroit train station hanging on their walls, light streaming through broken windows, colorful graffiti creating a patchwork of wallpaper on large columns and crumbling walls. “Like Jacob Riis or Walker Evans,” she explains, “but with buildings.” 

“But without the racism or exploitation,” Timmy helpfully supplies and hears Armie snort behind Liz as she swats at him with the back of her hand in a comfortable, playful move. 

Armie watches as Timmy makes dinner, simple stuff, but Timmy explains all the steps, like a cooking show. 

They watch TV or movies together until it’s far too late for Timmy. He goes to sleep, wrapping his arm around his waist, under his shirt, pretending it’s Armie’s. 

One night, he falls asleep while they are watching a movie, only to startle awake again at the sound of gunfire coming from the screen. He catches Armie, chin in his hand, seemingly staring into his tablet screen. Timmy’s heart begins the ratatat of a tap dance and, as he tries to strike down his overactive imagination, shooting an arrow directly through the floaty dreamlike belief that Armie was watching him sleep, makes a show of waking up, giving Armie time. Just in case. In case what? 

That night, unable to fall asleep thanks to his ill-timed night-nap, Timmy lies in bed, his fingertips trailing up and down his chest and stomach, making laps around his nipples, holding his hand around his throat, feeling his Adam’s apple bob, his pulse tremble. He flips onto his stomach, pretending Armie is behind him, opening him up, stretching him. He’s too lazy to get a dildo or even grab the lube for his fingers. He strokes himself, biting into the pillow to suffocate the name that threatens to spill from between his lips as he spills onto the sheets below him. He rolls out of the wet spot, and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to will himself asleep and away from self-reflection. 

It goes like this. 

Timmy tells Armie about his favorite bagel place in the city and his worries that they will go out of business without any foot traffic. The next morning, while Timmy is working on a memo, he hears knocking at the door and on the other side is a delivery person setting down a paper bag with bacon, egg, and cheese on an everything bagel. This time Timmy immediately texts Armie to thank him, neither of them mentioning another delivery, another gift, both of them relieved. Timmy receives a bagel sandwich every day after that.

Armie asks Timmy how his parents reacted when he came out and then bites his lip, looks down and back up in an instant, when he looks back up guilt shades those blue pools which narrow as he furrows his eye-brows. “Or, I mean, when you were, outed.” He sips in a breath. “Or, shit, what a thing to ask. God I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that.”

“No, no, it’s okay. It’s.” This hasn’t been rehearsed, refined over the last two years. This is a story that few have asked, his therapist maybe. Saoirse when they were reviewing his steps. The words don’t come as easily. He has to search for them, turn them over, inspect them, make sure they fit together like pieces of a puzzle that create a coherent picture. Isn’t life about looking back and fitting together a narrative, a story? He licks his lips, breathes out through his nose. “It’s hard to remember exactly. I was - it was in the hospital. And, I mean, it makes sense, but this was the least of their concerns, you know?”

He glances up from the spot where his eyes have rested next to his tablet. He can hardly take the kindness in Armie’s eyes, wants to push it away, push it down, push it under, drown it. Kindness is difficult for him, give him hard edges, give him sharp edges that cut. “Of course, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve - “

“But they were accepting, right away,” Timmy cuts him off, cannot bear to hear whatever sympathy was to come. There’s no place to escape to, he can’t run, he can’t even go outside. He hasn’t felt claustrophobic until now. He needs to shove off the blanket of kindness that’s making it hard to breathe. “I’m so lucky, I know. It could have been so much worse… if they hadn’t accepted me, if that had been an issue between us. But there was never any question.” 

Armie smiles a slow and big smile and it seems like the sunlight in his house has filled him up, warm and happy for Timmy, as though his parents’ acceptance somehow makes Armie’s own life better, easier. 

Together they allow that conversation to turn and shift until they’re both laughing as Timmy does impressions of the various people he met in the hospital and, later, in rehab. Not mean-spirited impressions, the type that if the person heard him, saw his mannerisms, they too would chuckle and say, “oh that _is_ me.” 

Timmy is not stupid enough to think that this friendship with Armie is anything but a quarantine convenience. He knows it won’t last beyond Armie’s need for something, anything, to fill his time. And Timmy is easy, he knows, makes himself easier, bends and shapes himself when necessary. Although it’s rarely necessary. Never needs to say he’s happy to watch a movie that he knows will bore him. Never needs to fake a laugh. When he makes Armie take him on a tour of his bookshelf, he doesn’t need to pretend to be interested in books he would not be friends with. He’s happy to let Armie talk about whatever he’s been learning about. He can’t help but love that Armie is always learning. That he starts every third conversation with “I was reading this article, wait, let me send you the link…” There are no corners he has to cut off to fit. Timmy knows he has made himself an easy companion but this friendship has an expiration date, once Armie has his freedom, he wouldn’t freely choose Timmy, not over all the other things, people, places, that will fill his life. And Timmy tries to accept this. He cannot change it. He has been lucky to have any of it at all. He feels giddy with his luck. 

And that giddiness, it seeps. It seeps into his conversations with Saoirse. Every sentence beginning with “Armie and I…” or “Armie said…” or “Let me send you this link that Armie…”

Saoirse doesn’t scold, she doesn’t even necessarily judge. There’s just concern, concern that leaks everywhere, like a sink overflowing, and Timmy trying to stop the flood with only his hands, water seeping out from between his fingers and all over the floor. Concern everywhere. Timmy would prefer if she was angry. 

She’s worried he’s setting himself up for disappointment. And she’s right, that’s the worst part. As much as he tells himself this is temporary. He is just a distraction for Armie. He can’t help it. With every conversation, with every movie, with every meme, he falls a little further. And he knows when he lands, it’s going to hurt and it will be nobody’s fault but his own. He just hopes nothing breaks.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I want to thank everyone who has commented, kudos’d, or otherwise reached out. I’m so grateful to each of you. This fic has brought me so much joy but that joy is multiplied by each of you. 
> 
> I want to especially thank those who have reached out with their stories of addiction or the addiction of a loved one. Thank you for your valuable feedback. I want to clarify that Timmy’s perspective of NA is his own. As with anything we do, his experience is filtered through his own lens and personal history. The way NA is represented in this fic is through that lens and it will not always align perfectly with what NA is like for everyone nor does it align perfectly with the NA literature itself. Specifically, NA identifies itself as a “not religious program.” 
> 
> Also, I thought this chapter was going to be zoom smut but alas, not yet. Slow burn continues to be slow.

Liz keeps giving him glances. They are not long enough to be looks, but these short glances pack a lot of meaning into a small space. She gives him a glance when his phone or tablet rings with a FaceTime call. She gives him a glance when hours later, she returns to the kitchen or dining room or TV room and he’s still chatting or, worse, when he’s not talking but they are sitting there in silence, watching the same movie or eating dinner together. 

They are meaningful glances from Liz and comfortable silences with Timmy. The type of comfortable silences that he’s only ever had before with Liz. Over dinner. During a movie. Reading on the couch, the waves crashing in the background.

She’s not jealous, that’s not the relationship they have. They never had, never will. She’s concerned. And that’s almost worse. 

He catches her, mouth slightly open, words lined up, about to march forward, before she shakes her head slightly, lips pull together, calling the words back from where they were on the front lines, ready to fire. As close as they are, there are some things they don’t discuss.

They don’t discuss Armie suddenly signing up with a community supported agriculture program and the delivery of the first CSA box filled with greens, so many greens, some with ruffled edges, some with serrated edges, and some skinny and sharp that Armie later learns are what herbs look like fresh from the ground. She doesn’t comment when he’s pouring over online recipes, carefully following each step, when they’ve never cooked before. When there is a permanent smudge on the screens of each of their phones right above the Postmates icon. She doesn’t comment when she hears Armie, mention in a casual way that Armie practiced in front of the mirror a few times before gesturing to his plate and, “Oh I just threw together Giada’s tuna and green bean salad for a light dinner, that fresh parsley just had to be used.” 

She doesn’t mention it and she doesn’t tease him about it. He wishes she would tease him about it.

She walks past him, trailing her fingertips along his shoulders as they are watching a movie. Armie isn’t watching the TV screen but rather the screen of his tablet, as Timmy sleeps, mouth slightly open, his breathing floating over the speakers, the volume of the TV turned down so Armie won’t miss a single rustle of the covers. He can rewatch the movie later but will not be able to rewind to see Timmy’s long fingers wrapped around his spare pillow, pulled close to himself, skin bare where his large t-shirt has pushed itself up around his armpits. To see Timmy bathed in the blue light of the television, giving his skin the appearance of being a slick-warm smooth place that could blanket Armie, hold him, make him feel small and safe for the first time. He wants to touch his fingers to the screen and wonders if Timmy’s skin is sleep-warm or whether he is cold, as he always seems to be when awake. Armie wants to pull a blanket over him, something soft, something that smells familiar, something that he could wiggle into, feeling more secure but without knowing why, still asleep. She looks behind her shoulder as she leaves the room and he slides his eyes over to her for a moment before turning his attention back. But she doesn’t say anything.

That night he tries to hold a pillow to his body, imagining it is sleeping Timmy in his arms. But it feels too big, too fluffy, not weighted enough. He doesn’t know what Timmy smells like, his hair, the nape of his neck. He gets up and grabs an old hoodie from his closet, it is washed-worn, soft, and smells faintly like Armie’s own cologne, something that he is scent-blind to now on himself but he can smell on his clothes. He can imagine Timmy, skinny and cold, sleeping in a hoodie as a compromise after they argue about how cold Armie keeps their room. He holds the hoodie to his chest, recalls Timmy’s sleep sounds, tucks a hand under his own shirt and imagines it’s Timmy’s skin, rising and falling with each snuffle snore. 

And it feels dangerous, it feels like Nick’s arm around him while watching _Pulp Fiction._

They don’t discuss these things but she knows. 

The guy in his Art History class, which Armie barely passed because he didn’t know the difference between Caravaggio and Bernini, but knew every ridge and vein on his cock, and how it hardened and thickened in his mouth, and what he tasted like, and what his knuckles looked like whitened, clenching the extra-long twin-sized flannel sheets in his dorm room. 

Liz turns suddenly when Timmy shrieks and laughs as he realizes Armie has seen that he’s wearing joggers with his business shirt and tie. They have just finished the weekly meeting and Timmy has gotten up to grab a refill for his coffee, walking away from his tablet, Armie chucking at the sight of Timmy’s button down tucked into bright purple sweatpants until Timmy yelps and drops to the floor, to presumably soldier-crawl his way to the kitchen. Armie and Liz see a hand reach around on the counter until it finds the carafe and then disappears again. And finally Timmy’s head, his curls sticking out in all directions, cheeks pink, lips pulled in between his teeth, pops back up on the screen. 

“Um,” Timmy gasps. “I don’t know if I can recover from that. You saw - you saw didn’t you?” He drops his head in his hands and peers out through the cracks between his fingers. 

“I most definitely saw that,” Armie deadpans. “Excuse me while I grab my phone so I can email Luca that _some_ assistants are taking liberties with professionalism in their attire.” Armie stands up and walks over to the kitchen counter and back, giving Timmy a full runway walk of himself in his business attire tucked into a pair of faded plaid shorts. When he sits back down, he can feel the stretch of his lips as his grin tries to reach from ear to ear and Timmy laughs breathlessly. 

Liz smiles and shakes her head and walks back downstairs to her office, not letting a word leave her mouth. 

The man at the bar that Armie went to every Friday, who didn’t mind his knees on the beer-sticky and piss-sour floors of the men’s room, whose mouth was warm and welcoming, whose finger pressed that spot between Armie’s cock and his balls, whose thick-fine hair felt so soft between Armie’s fingers. 

Armie sees other things without Timmy realizing. Or maybe he does realize and doesn’t care when Armie sees his pile of clothes on the Ikea chair in the corner by his bed. Armie wonders if these are Timmy’s dirty clothes or clothes he’s worn that are not dirty enough for the hamper but not worth hanging back up. 

He makes Timmy take him on a tour of his bookshelf, and he sees NA literature and workbooks, spines bent, overflowing with post-its. He spots the Harry Potter series, all hardback and confesses he’s never read them. Timmy’s eyes go wide and his mouth forms a perfect “O” shape.

The graduate school student, a year ahead of Armie, who held Armie has he trembled the first time he licked between the seam of Armie’s ass cheeks, the first time he swirled his tongue around his hole, held him until Armie relaxed enough and then, his tongue stiff and pointed, pushed past that first layer of muscle. And waited again until Armie was relaxed enough before sliding a finger in, finding that point inside him, and prodded at it with every stroke, until Armie flew apart. And held him again while he trembled. 

Liz watches from her end of the couch, a fire crackling in the fireplace, as Armie holds his phone and watches as Timmy reads aloud _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone,_ acting out all the different voices of the characters. Armie feels something like a dull pain just below his ribcage. He knows that Timmy didn’t get to go to the performing arts high school as he intended, that he tried to major in drama as an undergraduate but he missed rehearsals, forgot lines, and was eventually kicked out, and that he graduated with a degree in communications. He knows he should feel regret that Timmy feels but can’t because had Timmy been given a chance, the training, a single opportunity, Armie would have never met him. He already admires him from afar, on a screen, but the admiration would have been that of a fan, from a further distance, the screens would have been bigger. 

Liz listens along and stays silent. 

The guy from the dating app, not Grindr, the one supposedly for actual dating, whose apartment in Silver Lake Armie drove to every weekend and many weeknights. The one whose skin was smooth, and his ass was waxed, and who liked it best when he was lying flat on his stomach, legs inside the space between Armie’s knees, barely enough room for Armie to push in, but both of them groaning at the impossible stretch. Who liked it when Armie pulled his ass cheeks apart to watch himself slide in and out. Who liked it when Armie pulled him apart, teasing him, kissing him, digging his nails into his hips until they left little half moons. 

Armie sees other things without Timmy realizing. As Timmy is getting comfortable in his bed to watch a movie with Armie, they’re currently working their way through the Wachowski sisters’ filmography, he flips his comforter up and over and places his laptop down for a moment to move his pillows. There, in the folds of the green plaid comforter, is a six-inch purple dildo. Armie only sees it for a second before Timmy is picking up his laptop and placing it on his lap again.

That night Armie fingers himself, imagining Timmy in the same position, thighs wide, falling open, the dildo slick with lube. Imagines the same groan falling from his lips as he teases his hole, the sharp intake of air as he presses through that first ring of muscle. Armie prods his prostate as he fists his hard leaking cock, imagining the noises Timmy makes. Imagining the dark purple between small, pale globes, imagining the flush that would bloom and spread across Timmy’s narrow chest and up his swan like neck onto his cheeks. Armie imagines himself between Timmy’s legs, fucking him with the dildo, leaving Timmy a free hand to twist the sheet between his fingers or, or, or maybe place a hand around his neck, just pressing gently against his throat. Timmy squeezing his eyes shut, Armie whispering his name, an unspoken command to look at him, as he quakes with his orgasm. 

Liz’s mouth dips into a small frown as she hears Timmy recount how he tried to take an online yoga class because “everyone is talking about how important moving your body and getting grounded is during this thing, but, like, how can you both move and be grounded anyway?” and he confides that he struggled to do the alternate nostril breathing because “you know, it just reminded me of...shit this is stuff I should talk to Sersh about, not you. Sorry.” 

Liz glances, puts a message in a bottle and sends it across gentle waves to wash up at Armie’s feet. They don’t discuss it but she knows.

The guy from Armie’s Art History class asked him to come to a house party one weekend and Armie got Liz’s notes for the rest of the academic term and studiously avoided eye contact at the final exam. 

The man in the bar wanted Armie to come over, for a drink, maybe spend the night, leaned in and whisper-breathed into Armie’s ear, “I want to wake up next to you.” Armie mumbled some excuse about getting up early and never returned to the bar. He woke up the next morning with a blanket and pillow on the floor between Liz’s bed and her roommate’s bed, uncertain how he got there. 

The graduate student asked Armie to go away together for a weekend to wine country. He knew a place. Armie went, excited to have uninterrupted time with him. He liked him, he did. And then he started talking about his plans for after he graduated, his hopes to get a job that would keep him in Los Angeles, and then, maybe, he turned his eyes, shiny like a good luck penny, to Armie, they could find an apartment together? Armie stammered something about returning to that question later and also about how he promised Liz that they would live together and, well, they would see. Armie broke up with him a few weeks later, not having even realized they were in a relationship until he had brought up living together. The next week, he and Liz signed a one-year lease on a two-bedroom apartment in Santa Monica. 

The guy from Tinder was happy to have Armie come over, spend the night, spend weekends. But eventually he told Armie he couldn’t see him anymore, he knew he had said all he wanted was friends with benefits but now he wanted more, and he couldn’t be in a relationship with someone so far in the closet that he was a “narnia gay.” Armie had blinked back hot tears that threatened to burn trails down his cheeks, had swallowed around the sick feeling rising up in his throat. He had considered it, he really had. But he left that guy’s apartment that night, with a small box of his belongings that he had forgotten there over the months. He went home to Liz, to their house in Malibu. 

Liz doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to. She’s worried and Armie knows she’s right. He knows that whatever his feelings, this isn’t real. How could it be? Armie is keeping Timmy company during quarantine but once Timmy can go out in the world again, why would he spend time with an older guy on the opposite coast? Who’s supposedly straight with a live-in girlfriend, don’t forget that part. And if he did, if something could, would happen between them it would end. It would end as it always does, Armie doesn’t have enough to give. And Timmy? He deserves everything.

So Armie is resigned to being the best fucking quarantine buddy he can be. Until one night when he tries to FaceTime Timmy and Timmy doesn’t pick up. Armie checks the time, does the time zone math, and confirms that Timmy’s Friday night meeting should be over by now. He tries to FaceTime again and, still, no response. Armie tries to slow the quick-step rhythm of his heart, tries to breathe into his belly. Timmy wouldn’t suddenly ignore him like that. A text pops up “Sorry, can’t talk right now…” and Armie tries not to feel hurt because he knows it’s one of those automatic responses Timmy’s phone offers when he declines a call. There’s no thought in it. And Armie wants, wants too much, wants too much always, wants Timmy to think of him, to know how this would affect him. Feels, hurt, disappointed, with shame quickly pushing the others out of the way. 

And then his tablet rings with a FaceTime call from Timmy, and the world disappears, and he answers. Timmy’s face is pale, his eyes are red-rimmed and there’s a tightness around them Armie has never seen before. “Timmy what - “

“He was there,” Timmy’s voice trembles. “He was there in the meeting.”

“Who? Who was there?” Armie’s mouth is dry, his eyes search his coffee table for a glass of water. Why didn’t he get himself a glass of water? 

“Ansel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry? That last bit had to be from Armie's POV and the next chapter is from Timmy's POV.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What are schedules anyway? 
> 
> I feel like an album on repeat - thank you all so much for every comment and every kudos. Writing has been one thing keeping me tethered to being able to function these days and I'm incredibly grateful for each of your responses. They say, "write for yourself" and I do - but knowing I'm not writing into the void, that means everything. Thank you.

_“He was there,” Timmy’s voice trembles. “He was there in the meeting.”_

_“Who? Who was there?” Armie’s mouth is dry, his eyes search his coffee table for a glass of water. Why didn’t he get himself a glass of water? _

_“Ansel.”_

Timmy is able to say his name now. At the start of the meeting, when everyone was logging on and he saw his name and then he came into view, he could have choked on the letters of it. But he had the full hour and a half, he had a conversation with Saoirse, he had a shower he took afterwards to try to place some distance, even more distance, between him and his shock. Distance between who Ansel was, who he is, and who Armie is. He didn’t want to pollute his time with Armie with these feelings. He can say the name.

Armie’s eyes narrow, “What was he doing there?”

Timmy tilts his head and hears a huff, a laugh tinged with the bitter taste of coffee left overnight, push its way through his lips. “Armie. What do you think he was doing there?”

“But, but that’s _your_ meeting,” Armie insists. 

“It’s not my meeting. Anyone who…”

“Yeah, you’ve said, anyone identifying as an addict can attend.” Timmy slumps, he’s not used to Armie cutting him off, especially when it comes to any discussion of addiction or recovery. That’s something that Timmy feels Armie has built a moat around. He understands, it’s difficult for most non-addicts to know how to approach the topic, the moat feels distant but respectful, and he knows he has no business asking anything more of Armie than he’s already given. “But, but it’s _your_ meeting, you’re the, uh, secretary. Can’t he just find another meeting?”

Timmy sighs, his voice is tighter than he would like, “It’s not my meeting, I don’t know how else to explain this. He’s welcome there.”

“What did he say?” Timmy does not know why there’s this feral sound to Armie’s voice, why there’s a wild look in his eyes, why he seems to be vibrating with an intense energy. 

“I can’t tell you that, Armie.” Droplets of water run drip off Timmy’s hair, curling up at the ends as it dries, onto his shoulders and down his chest. He’s always hunched forward a bit when he has to assert himself, even when he knows, he knows, he has every right to, is right to, even then. He can’t help but feel defensive. 

Armie’s eyes seem to follow the trail of water down Timmy’s chest, it’s always so difficult to place where someone is looking when you’re both staring at a screen. So difficult to separate wishful thinking from reality. His eyes then shift and when they return to the screen, they look calmer, more like the calm pool-blue Timmy is used to. “You’re wet.”

“I took a shower.”

Armie juts his chin in a half nod, “Let me, let me just carry this down to my room. I want to ask - ask how you’re doing but just in case Liz needs the kitchen or TV. Yeah, hang on.”

Timmy avoids the bumpy ride, he always feels a bit motion sick when he’s on a facetime call and gets moved around, by placing his laptop on his bedside table and getting comfortable in his bed. When he returns his eyes to the screen, Armie is sitting in his bed, his tablet propped up against what must be a pillow at the end of his bed, his back against the headboard, his room bathed in golden light. He looks like a golden god and Timmy wonders, once again, why he seems to consistently seek out Timmy’s company, why he seems to care. It’s the caring Timmy struggles with. 

“Were you - when I called, before, were you - “

“I was on the phone with Sersh.” Armie nods at that. “I didn’t know, what, whether,” Timmy breathes in deeply, feels his whole body rock slightly with the motion, “Whether I had to make amends to him.” He takes in Armie’s face, his reaction, he’s completely still, his eyes are narrowed but blank, his lips a line, and despite being bathed in gold, his skin looks almost gray. Something pushes the next words out in a rush, like he has to reassure Armie, for something he doesn’t entirely understand, only has the barest hint of. “I don’t. She said I don’t. She said my outing him wasn’t something I did, I did on purpose. I don’t have to make amends.”

“You shouldn’t even have to talk to him,” Armie’s tone is measured, flat, careful. 

“I - what he did, it’s not like he forced me, you know?” He’s sitting sideways in his bed, leaning his elbow up against his headboard, to be able to look at his laptop directly, although he wishes he wasn’t. Not for this conversation. “He was, is, just like me, Armie. Broken.”

“Broken?” Armie chokes out. “You’re not broken.” Timmy lets the words hang between them, not sure how to respond, not sure how much of that he believes. “He was older and he knew better.” Armie’s voice is unyielding, frosty, like the April ground outside Timmy’s window. 

“He was older, but he was sixteen when we met. I don’t think, I don’t think he knew better.” Timmy braids his fingers together, it’s almost painful. This is almost painful. He doesn’t want to be having this discussion with Armie. He doesn’t want to remind Armie of how troubled he is, to remind him of his past. He wants them to watch a movie, to tease Armie about putting pepper on his popcorn, to have a regular Friday night. 

“He kept you a secret. No one should keep you a secret Timmy,” Armie insists. Timmy looks up, as if the answers from the heavens would somehow have made their way down to the water stained popcorn ceiling above him. He blows a breath of air up to a rogue curl that has escaped the band of his headphones. He looks back at the screen, the intensity of Armie’s expression makes his palms sweaty. He wants that intensity to mean something. Armie’s gaze is burning him, except he knows it is the cheap burn of a soup heated in the microwave - the bowl burning his fingertips but with pockets of cold among the vegetables and noodles. His fingers slip from their braid. 

“He was - “ Timmy sighs. He prefers the queer meetings for exactly this reason. It’s hard to explain to someone who has never been through the fear of rejection, the fear of having to claim one more thing, in a world that already isolates, that sets him apart, makes him different. How to explain to Armie what it was like to even consider doing that as a teenager? “He was a queer kid, it was scary. I didn’t get it then, but I get it now.”

Armie’s face, his whole demeanor, seems to shift, the golden light once again reflects off him, the corners of his eyes soften, he leans forward a bit, and the corners of his mouth turn downward slightly, almost like he’s sad. Almost like he wants to reach through the screen to Timmy, but not for Timmy’s comfort, for his own. And, oh, whatever it is going through Armie’s mind, Timmy wants to comfort him, wants to hold him. 

“He was always a friend, even if what we did,” He can’t call it a relationship. That feels like false advertising. He can’t call it a relationship to Armie, to someone who has a steady type of love that Timmy wants, one that lasts through the years. He can’t call it a relationship to Armie, but he does to himself. Because, if he didn’t, he would have to admit he’s never had a relationship at all. “Even if what we did, we kept secret.” Timmy continues. “He wasn’t, when we were alone, he wasn’t a bad guy,” he swallows. “He was kind, even.”

“Kind?” Armie’s voice sounds like someone took sandpaper to the edges, roughed it up a bit. And Timmy fights the urge to close his eyes at the sound of it, to imagine for a moment that voice is his, sleep rough, hoarse with arousal, something intimate that only he gets to hear. He shifts slightly, feeling himself harden at the thought, the fantasy. “You - you fucking deserve more than kind, Timmy. He was your, your first, yeah?”

There’s an intensity to Armie’s staring into the screen that pushes Timmy’s gaze down to his entangled fingers in his lap and then back up, looking at him through a curtain of eyelashes. He feels himself tilt off the edge of something steep, no ledge below, no parachute. It feels like flirting, he’s flirting. His voice is breathless with it, “Yeah, he was my first. He was,” looks down again, back up, swallows, imagines he can trace the slight movement in Armie’s eyes to his own neck, “...gentle.” It comes out as a whisper, the look in Armie’s eyes is burning into him. He has to, he’s got to shift his laptop screen, it’s going to be obvious before long. He’s broken, there’s something so utterly broken about him to be turned on like this, now, during this conversation. 

“Gentle?” Armie’s voice cracks slightly, Timmy tries to fool himself, knows it’s feedback from his headphones. “And do you,” Armie looks down, looks back up, the pools are shining, if water could burn, clears his throat, “Do you like that?” 

“Like - like that?” 

“Gentle?”

“G-gentle? Yeah, sometimes, I mean, yes, sometimes, not always.”

“Not always?”

“N-no, other times, other times, not. Not so gentle. Yeah, it depends. Uh, Armie?”

Armie stares into the screen, the intensity of the pool-blue, Timmy could drown, happily, walk into them like Virginia Woolf, never to return. Timmy can see the rise and fall of his chest, fast enough to catch his attention, almost mimicking the rapid rise and fall of Timmy’s own bare chest, his heart beating wildly. Armie licks his lips, Timmy follows the trail of his tongue. That sandpaper rough has returned, “Show me.” 

“Sh-show you?” Timmy’s cock grows harder, so fucking embarassing, no sense whatsoever, taking something obviously misheard and just running with it. 

Armie nods. He nods. Doesn’t break his gaze from Timmy’s eyes, nods again, but stammers, “If you, if you don’t mind - I - “

Timmy nods, three times in rapid succession. He shifts his weight from where it’s rested against the headboard, trailing his hand down his chest slowly. Giving Armie time to come to his senses, giving Timmy time. It is a dream he doesn’t want to wake up from. “Like...like this?”

Armie takes a trembling breath, his eyes seeming to move from Timmy’s chest to his eyes and back, following the trail his hand makes, down his torso, his belly, pausing, narrow fingertips above his waistband. “Like that...if that’s, that’s what you like.”

“I - y-yes, should I?” He scrambles to his knees, he’s so desperate, he knows it, he knows he’s tipped his hand, but just give him tonight, he asks the universe, himself, Armie, just give him tonight. Armie bites his lower lip, it is the same blush color that paints his cheekbones, the pool-blue swallowed by deep dark pupils, a sound fights its way past teeth-clenched-to-lip, a whimpery moan, and Timmy’s lost. He slides his sweats down, pooling around his knees, he’s not wearing anything underneath, the first touch of his fingers feels electric, the intensity of Armie’s stare made physical. He tries to hold a whimper, like a baby bird, safe inside, but it bubbles up and out of the nest, sounds like a broken thing, the broken thing he is. He strokes himself, too lightly, in a fist that’s too loose.

“Yes, Timmy, is that how…?” Timmy can hear Armie panting, slightly, in stereo, thanks to the headphones. 

“More like, more like…” Timmy tightens around himself, his touch is bordering on rough as he lets his thumb swipe over the head of his cock, collecting precome and letting it ease his flying fist. He’s always struggled more with gentle. “Like, like this.” His head hangs forward and he falls back on his heels and peers at Armie through the curtain of curls. Armie looks like he is afraid to blink, his breathing a slow hoarse rhythm surrounding Timmy, better than any playlist he could have created for a would-be lover. The intensity of it all propelling Timmy forward, hurtling toward that edge, his balls drawing up. 

“Are you - are you thinking of him?” Timmy shakes his head, curls flying. “Who - who then?”

“Y-you, Armie, I - I, you!” Timmy chokes out as his belly trembles and wet hotness spurts over his fist. He looks up and the look on Armie’s face… there is a sheen of sweat, although Timmy knows he sets his thermostat unforgivably cold, his mouth is hanging open, and Timmy thinks he sees. Armie looks hard in his pants. Timmy kneels up, pulling up his own pants with one hand and toppling forward, that same hand catching his weight. He crawls, he will dwell on this later, how undignified, how he came all over himself and then crawled to his laptop screen. Narrow fingers reaching out. “Armie,” he whispers. “Armie, I want, I want - “

“What? What do you want? Any - “ Armie’s voice is also a broken thing. Together they stare at each other across blue light screens. 

“To taste, to taste you,” Timmy whimpers. 

“Show me.” Timmy closes his eyes, brings his fist to mouth and the pointy tip of his tongue sticks out, he spreads his fingers, and laps at the sticky web there. Armie groans and Timmy’s eyes spring open to see Armie’s large hand, snaking inside his pants, palming himself. 

“Armie, please,” Timmy whispers. Armie’s expression is at once blurred around his eyes, like the smudge of oil pastels, and fire-on-water pools a rolling boil. He lifts his hips slightly and pulls his pants down, pulling himself out in the same motion. Timmy drops his hand, heedless of the mess on the sheets, stares at Armie from from all fours, wants to crawl between his thighs, feel the heat of them on his cheeks, his mouth opens and his tongue rests on his bottom lip, as if he’s waiting for Armie to push in past his lips, fuck into his mouth, pull his hair. He does better with a bit of pain. Knows the shape of it, knows his ability to withstand it. Armie’s groans fill his ears, Timmy almost believes he can feel the vibrations of them, like the bass in his favorite hip-hop. 

Armie comes with a choked moan that sounds like “Tim,” but it isn’t. They catch each other’s eyes. Tears are streaming down Timmy’s cheeks, as though he had been choking on Armie’s cock, he feels betrayed by his tears more than he did his orgasm. Armie’s eyes are lit up, like there’s something inside him, opening him wide, exposing this internal source of luminescence, like something radioactive, something dangerous. 

Dangerous has always been familiar, comfortable to Timmy. He welcomes danger, pushes into it. “Armie, I love,” he swallows, pushes forward, why not, “I love you.”

Armie’s eyes snap shut for an instant but Timmy is staring unblinking at the screen and does not miss it. “Tim - Timmy, I’m sorry.”

_I love you._

_I’m sorry._

“Fuck, I should, look, I should go. I will, I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Armie?”

“Yeah?” He sounds tired all of a sudden, weary, as though Timmy is now a burden he doesn’t want to bear. 

“Just.” Timmy swallows around something that tastes like sneaking out of Ansel’s room at 2 AM when he was fifteen. “Good night.”

“Good night, Timmy. I’ll, tomorrow, okay? Sleep well.”

Timmy wants to laugh at that but he just presses the red button ending the call.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I added **“Angst with a Happy Ending”** to the tags sometime after I started receiving comments on that last chapter. And thank you all so very much for the comments, the kudos, and the reaching out on tumblr - you truly have no idea how much it makes my heart sing (terribly off-key and humming where I’ve forgotten the lyrics, but singing loudly and happily) to hear from you. 
> 
> My take on angst in my fics (please skip if you don’t care for this bit of discussion about my _process_): I work in the mental health field. I hold quite a number of people’s pain and trauma. It’s okay! This is not a complaint about that - I’m honored to do so and it is very much my dream job. I do get asked, however, how I manage to not take my work home with me (side note: quarantine has made that more difficult in both the literal sense - my work is now in my home - and the figurative sense - I am working with people coping with the very crisis I’m coping with). The way I am able to leave the work I do and separate myself is: hope. Everyone I work with I have hope for recovery, whatever that recovery means for them. Without that hope, my work would be impossible. It makes my work very different than, say, tuning into what is happening in the world. There is a lot of pain in the world and it can be difficult to hold that hope the way I can on an individual level. As a result, I nope out of fics that include angst without a happy ending. I also nope out of fics that use angst to titillate or to just evoke pain for pain’s sake. I have no judgment about those who are drawn to write those fics and those who choose to read them. But that boundary is a form of self-care that I won’t compromise. And I would never write a fic that I wouldn’t read. Therefore angst in my fics will always have a happy (but realistic) ending and the angst, if I’ve done my job as a writer correctly, is in the service of character growth. My favorite fics, and those I hope I am able to write (how successful I am is for you to judge), are those where the characters are better as a result of the journey they took. The angst is part of the journey. The pain is growing pains. Thank you for entrusting these characters to my care. I hope you find the destination (eventually, when we get there) worth the journey.

_I love you._

_I’m sorry._

_I love you._

_I’m sorry._

Timmy plays the words over in his mind as he stares at the blank screen of his tablet. He stares for seconds, perhaps minutes, probably not hours, but it could be. Could be hours and he wouldn’t know. He kneels on his bed, sitting back on his heels, his hand still sticky, his cock still sticky, with his come. The inside of his sweatpants damp and sticking to his skin. The air suddenly cold on his bare torso.

His body suddenly feels as though the gravitational pull of Earth is stronger than it was an hour, a half hour, fifteen minutes ago. He slumps back against his headboard and stares into space.

Timmy has coping skills. On a good day they can be called coping skills. On his best day he could be said to be halfway decent at them. Skills he learned at rehab, skills he practiced as a matter of his work with Saoirse, skills he has used, when he remembers, when something is stressful. The night before his interview at Ivory Advertising, the night before his first day of work, when he’s going to be a speaker at a new-to-him meeting, before he meets a guy from an app and even though it’s clear this is just a hook-up, a single lit match inside him flickers with hope that maybe, just maybe it could be something more.

He uses these skills with varying degrees of success. He meditates, he has an app and all. Focuses on his breathing, nonjudgmentally turns his attention back to his breath when he notices his mind wandering, tries not to judge the judging when he fails, inevitably at being nonjudgmental. He exercises. He used to go to the gym, run on the treadmill until his lungs were burning with something other than shame. Now he has a whole playlist of YouTube videos, everything from yoga to high intensity interval workouts. He cooks. He writes in a journal, uses his 12-step workbook or the other NA literature for prompts. He calls Saoirse.

He does these things. It is a part of the work of recovery. And god dammit but it feels like work. None of it comes naturally. Maybe one day. Maybe longer than two years, some odd months, and a few days of being clean and it will be second nature.

But, in the meantime, he hates it. Hates it all. Every moment of running, every moment of holding tree pose, every burpee, every moment of writing in his journal, every moment on the telephone with Saoirse, every moment of focusing on his breath. He wishes he had never gotten clean, wishes he could still escape into that orange bottle, float away on that white circle, and let the world blur in the background. And he dutifully acknowledges the thought, tries to not judge himself, and turns his attention back.

He has these coping options. But sometimes, sometimes, sometimes, the effort of it all is too much. It is enough to continue to breathe. It is enough to continue to allow his heart to beat. It is enough to sit there in his bed, staring off into nothing in particular, allowing his mind the comfortable numbness that is as close to blurring the world as sobriety can approximate. He just needs to...not exist for a bit. Forever if that’s an option.

_I love you._

_I’m sorry._

He will do better tomorrow. He will. Just give him this. Just give him this tonight. He will do better tomorrow. If he cannot forcibly stop the Earth from turning on its axis and prevent tomorrow from ever coming. He hates this, _hates_ this, but anything is better than the sun rising, the world continuing to exist as if...ugh, he can’t even think it.

He wants to slump in his bed, lie on the patch of his sheet that is stiff where it was once damp, pull the comforter over him, and throw his arm over his eyes, as if that could shield him from the world, from what happened. But he can't, he's paralyzed with the utter weight of the shame, holding him in place. If he moved, he would not trust himself to lie down. He doesn't know what he would do and the part of him that keeps him choosing to stay clean, to stay safe at least for that second, for that minute, for that hour, for that day, keeps him paralyzed. 

It is not the worst. It could be worse. Some part of his mind registers this. Registers the memory of Saoirse telling him, more than once probably, but he needs the repetition, he needs to hear things again and again when being told things that feel so very true for others but not for himself. As if he’s that special. As if the rules he applies to others somehow don’t apply to himself. As though he’s above the kindnesses he grants others. Somewhere, in some back corner of his mind that’s still here, still present, he recalls Saoirse telling him, trauma is the gateway drug to addiction.

So this is okay. This is better than it could be. Just give him this and tomorrow he’ll do the work again. He just needs to survive. Get through the next second, the next minute, the next hour without turning towards old habits. He doesn’t have to be perfect (try telling him that, try getting him to believe that), he just has to survive this second, this minute, this hour.

And there, in the back of his head, the same place Saoirse’s other (dubious) words of wisdom live, is another saying she’s fond of and fuck if it doesn’t push its way to the front of Timmy’s mind, where he had been gratefully numb, staring ahead at the middle space between his bed and his television. “The best thing about getting clean is you get your feelings back...and the worst thing about getting clean is that you get your feelings back.”

He should really get another sponsor.

A jackhammer starts in his chest and he breaks out into a cold sweat. Oh there it is. Suddenly, like an avalanche through the quiet snow, it all comes crashing in. Shames overwhelms him, it’s suddenly everywhere in the studio apartment, every inhale brings more shame, and there’s no room to exhale, the air is too thick with it.

How could he? How could he have taken advantage, have misread cues so badly? He swallows and a feeling of burning ice fills his lungs. Armie has been nothing but kind, incredibly kind, and so fucking generous. They’re friends. Perhaps out of convenience, perhaps friends with an expiration date, but friends nonetheless.

Armie knows him. They have spent six weeks spending increasingly more time together each day. Armie has let him practice his rusty acting skills by listening while he reads aloud. Timmy’s shown him the embarrassing videos of himself dancing to hip hop when he was in middle school on YouTube. And Armie laughed, laughed _with_ him, not at him. Armie has a bagel sandwich delivered to his door every single day. Every. Single. Day. They have flipped through the books they own in common to compare what they wrote in the margins. To compare which lines they each underlined.

They underlined so many of the same lines and Timmy read something into it that wasn’t there. That never existed.

Armie wasn’t staring at him as he ate apple slices in that first Zoom meeting. Timmy couldn’t tear his gaze away from those eyes so deep blue he drowned in them, losing his last breath rather than get back to the surface.

Armie wasn’t watching him sleep. Timmy was dreaming.

Every smile was Armie being friendly. Friendly to a kid in need, a kid with no one else. Who else does Timmy have? There’s Saoirse, but she’s his sponsor, she literally has to be there for him. And he really needs to get a new one. All this feeling his feelings stuff is shit.

Every twinkle in Armie’s eye when he said Timmy’s name was the light reflecting off the water breaking on the shore outside his house. A needy kid, friends with a man ten years his senior with a house in goddamn Malibu?

Timmy would laugh if it didn’t feel like it would break whatever decay is holding him all together and splinter him into a million tiny pieces.

Friends, maybe. A charity case, a good deed, more likely. And Timmy is fucking sick of being someone else’s good deed but it’s what he has and he feels desperate for it. He would have taken Armie any way he could get him but he went and fucked this up too.

Armie who went as far as to pretend to have an interest in cooking to… to what? To appease Timmy.

Cooking. Cooking is one of those coping skills that he’s learned. He spent years of his addiction more focused on feeding his cravings than himself. He had been indifferent to food, still is to be perfectly honest. The rehab he went to had cooking lessons and had the residents cook the dinners each night.

(It was a fancy rehab, his parents spared no expense, even though he didn’t quite stay clean after his stay, even though it took him some months before truly committing to staying clean that day, and the following day, and the following day until the days added up and he started counting by weeks, and then by months, and then by years, except in the moments when he needs to see those second tick by. His parents spared no expense and he wears that, like an albatross, around his neck.)

He learned how to cook. The basics. Plus what he could recall of summers spent by his grand-mere’s side, an apron tied around her soft middle, learning to crack an egg on the counter, learning to snap the ends of the asparagus, learning that sometimes food is love. He learned how to cook and it is one of those daily practices that help him stay clean. Keeps him occupied. Keeps him fed, when he would otherwise forget. Makes him behave like he’s worth taking care of. One day his thoughts might learn something from his actions.

He’s cooked with Armie, taught him the basics, marveled when he found recipes online and tried them out with that look in his eye. The reflection of the ocean, the smile of indulgence with a splash of pity. That look in his eye that Timmy mistook for something more, something like wanting Timmy to be proud of him.

How fucking stupid could he have been?

They shared meals together.

Oh. Oh god they shared meals together. Timmy and Armie and Liz.

Liz. Armie’s beloved partner. Armie’s partner who has been by his side since they were in college. What has Timmy done?

He lets out a keening noise, the noise of mourning, of beating one’s chest with one’s fist.

If there had been a way - and Timmy’s lizard mind is always working the angle, always trying to figure out how to game the system, manipulate, to get what he wants - if there had been a way to salvage his friendship with Armie, he suddenly realizes it never existed. The space he had dug out, the space he could breathe in, has collapsed in on itself.

He recalls Liz’s photography, that one stunning shot of the decaying train station, light streaming in the windows, graffiti like wallpaper. In his memory, there’s a heart spray painted on one of the once noble columns with EC + AH scrawled in the middle. And Timmy? Timmy’s just come in and kicked and kicked and kicked at that one spot and the whole thing has crumpled to a heap of rubble.

It’s bad enough that Timmy repeatedly fucks up his own life but now Armie’s? If only he could have warned him - stay away from me, I poison every well, stay away from me. Don’t welcome me into your family. I will destroy you. But he was greedy. He wanted, oh oh oh how he wanted. He had been desperate with it.

Fuck.

_I love you._

_I’m sorry._

_I love you._

_I’m sorry._

Fuck.

Timmy sits there, in his bed, in the wet spot that is now stiff, staring at the middle space between his bed and the television. The sun rises. It never quite fills the space, not like Armie did with a smile. It will be okay. Not now, but eventually. Timmy will readjust to an apartment that is filled by half-measures, a little light, a little warmth. Not unlike his life. It will be okay. He is fine.

He sits there until there is a knock at the door. The daily bagel delivery. Armie must have had it arranged in advance - perhaps ordering them a week at a time. Timmy sighs as he finally moves from the spot, his feet tingle from having sat in one position all night, and he rubs at his eyes, which feel like there are grains of sand stuck under his eyelids. He washes his hands and grabs his vogmask from the wall unit with hooks for keys. There are too many hooks. He only has one set of keys. It’s a studio, he doesn’t share it with a roommate. He doesn’t have friends who would give him their keys for “just in case” or “if you could water my plants while I’m out of town” or “just let yourself in, I’m running late.” He doesn’t have friends like those. Just one set of keys and three empty hooks, his face mask now hanging by its elastic earpiece from one of them. He slides the elastic over each ear and is struck by the habit of it. In just a short time it has become second nature to slip on his mask before answering the door, when going to check his mail, when walking across the street to the market. It’s become normal to see everyone else wearing masks as well. Suddenly thrown into some dystopian future all while adjusting to each new change, each new precaution. A frog that doesn’t jump from the pot because the water slowly warms to a boil.

It’s happened so slowly. He realizes what’s been happening in the world, watches the news with growing horror, same as everyone else. But the habit, the automatic action of putting on his mask, expecting the person on the other side of the door will be wearing one too. That, that just hits differently. The way it has snuck in, rearranged the furniture, made itself at home.

In the same amount of time Armie has been in his life, a small, fragile voice reminds him. He shuts it up by opening the door. The delivery person hands him the brown bag he’s come to expect every morning (and really who the fuck does he think he is to adjust to _this_? To come to expect something so thoughtful and generous?) and then hands Timmy a large cup of coffee.

A cup of coffee.

The order has never included a cup of coffee before. Much like cooking, making coffee is a ritual, one performed several times a day, a ritual that keeps him moving forward, like a shark, stopping is too dangerous. Not that Armie knows that. But he knows that Timmy missed the bagel sandwiches. Knew that Timmy worried about the shop going out of business. The order has never included coffee.

“Uh, I don’t think this is a part of my order?” Timmy mumbles and then repeats himself, the mask doesn’t allow for anything but an assertive tone. Not if he wants to be understood, not if he doesn’t want someone else to miss out on their coffee order, probably getting the delivery person in trouble. Not if he wants to clarify that Armie absolutely did not call to make this order, this morning, specially.

The delivery person checks their phone and shakes their head. “Nope, bacon, egg, and cheese on an everything bagel, and one large black coffee.”

Armie knows he drinks his coffee black.

Timmy reaches over for his wallet to grab some cash for a tip. The first time he received the delivery, he was assured the tip had already been taken care of but it’s the least he can do. He is able to work from home, to stay safe there, it’s more a gesture than anything. A few bucks doesn’t make much of a difference but it makes more of a difference than everyone shouting from their windows at seven each evening.

Today it feels like penance.

He would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the bagel sandwich and the coffee. It is delicious. There is a reason it’s his favorite.

His phone rings with a FaceTime call. It’s Armie.

He’s ashamed of a lot of things. He’s ashamed of how last night unfolded. He adds to the list of shame when he answers with, “Why did you order coffee? I can make my own.”

Armie’s deep voice rumbles over the phone’s speaker, the apartment instantly feeling warmer, although it has no right too. “I know you can. But sometimes....but sometimes it’s nice to have someone make it for you.”

Timmy turns those words over in his mind, memorizes them, tucks them away for later. Because there it is: a single lit match inside him flickers with hope. He’s not certain he’s ready to snuff it out just yet. He’s not certain he can survive that. Not right now.

“Armie I - “

“Timmy - “

“Armie, please, just let me speak.”

Armie gestures with his hand, giving Timmy the floor.

“I am, I don’t even have words to explain, how mortified, how absolutely awful I, just how very sorry I am. I took - I took advantage of your friendship. I think I - I think I saw things that weren’t, that was wishful thinking, anyway,” he rushes on to the next part. “I am so sorry. I can’t believe how disrespectful I was to - to you and Liz. Liz! Oh my god. Please, tell me what I can do. Will you give me her number? I can, I can call, I can explain everything. It is entirely my fault. Or - “

“Timmy,” Armie’s voice is like a mattress, firm but soft, cushioning Timmy’s fall. “You don’t need to - Liz, she doesn’t - “

Timmy then sees the bags under Armie’s bloodshot eyes, the ashen pallor where there is usually sun-drenched gold. What happened kept him up all night too. Armie didn’t deserve that. It kept him up all night. As if Timmy did this too - stole the escape into the peace of sleep from Armie. “She doesn’t know? That’s fine, I won’t, I wouldn’t tell her. Whatever you want Armie. Just.” His breath starts in his toes and by the time it reaches his lungs he’s able to say, “I know we probably, you wouldn’t want to be friends, if that’s what we were, fuck! I know that, okay? But just tell me, tell me how I can make this right. I - I can’t - I’m so sorry?”

“If you want - if you want to pretend like nothing happened,” Armie’s voice is a piece of paper, carelessly torn in two, rough, uneven, “if that’s what you want, then I - I will.”

“You will?” Timmy touches his Adam’s apple as he stares at Armie’s face. “You think, you mean, you could pretend like this never happened?’

“If that’s what you,” Timmy’s phone cuts out for a second, making it sound like Armie’s voice breaks, “want. But you said, you thought I wouldn’t want to be friends…”

“Well not after last - not after I abused your trust.” Timmy’s fingers clench around his throat. “Fuck!”

“What if I did still want to be friends?” His voice is gravely, deep, in a way that Timmy feels he would cut his feet walking over but still beg to have the opportunity. To have his skin shredded and bloody, a sign that once, once there was a man like Armie who at least acted at wanting to spend time with him.

“You - you do?”

“But you said, ‘if that’s what we were,’” Timmy watches Armie’s throat as he swallows. “Did you not, did you think we weren’t friends?”

“I know nothing Armie,” Timmy admits. Might as well split himself open, show Armie the mess that’s inside. “I don’t know if, why, you would be friends with me. Were we...were we friends?”

“Were we friends?” Armie’s laugh is bitter like tea steeped too long. “I had hoped, I had certainly hoped so. But I can understand - I’m nearly a decade older than you, not nearly as brave, nothing compared with - I can understand if you didn’t think we were.”

“No I - “ Timmy starts and Armie cuts him off like if he doesn’t get these words out they will fester inside, like he will regret the not saying of them forever.

“I had wondered, hoped really, it was foolish, that maybe, just maybe we were just on the edge of more than that.” Armie folds his lips in, holding himself back from more, from saying more, from risking more.

“More than that? More than friends?”

Armie gives him a nod, a sad nod, the crinkles around his eyes, his lips all pointing downward.

“No, I mean yes, I mean - that’s what I - “ And Timmy does the math. Liz doesn’t know. Armie, Armie who is honest to a fault, doesn’t believe she needs to know. Armie, who ordered him coffee because “sometimes it’s nice to have someone make it for you.” Armie, who ordered him a bagel sandwich every day. Armie, who asked Timmy to read aloud books. Armie, who asked Timmy to teach him how to cook. Armie who watched him while he slept. Armie, who had asked how Timmy liked to be touched. Armie, who had grown hard and wet watching Timmy touch himself, lick his fingers clean, who had gotten off within a few strokes and under Timmy’s unwavering gaze. “So you’re…?”

“I - I am.” Armie looks at him from under eyelashes that cast a shadow on his cheek. Armie looks at him with trust, trusting him to take this information and hold it close.

“And no one - “

“Liz knows, of course she does. But yes, no one.” The request is unspoken but clear.

“So you’ve never?” Armie shakes his head. “Your whole life?”

“My whole life,” Armie affirms. Later, later when things are sorted, when they are more assured in who they are to each other, Armie will tell him the story. Armie will long to hold him as Timmy cries about parents so cruel to, in one move, crush Armie’s dreams and reject who he is. Armie will long to hold Timmy through it and Timmy will wish he was stronger, that he could hold up that heavy mirror so that Armie could see how beautiful-brave he really is.

“Armie,” Timmy extends pale, narrow fingers to the screen and touches it softly.

Armie clears his throat and glances at a point to the side of the screen. “But I meant it. I meant what I said yesterday, Timmy, no one should keep you a secret. Least of all,” he clears his throat again, “least of all me. And I don’t know. I don’t know if I can offer you more than this. Ever.”

Timmy isn’t sure what “this” means - a long distance affair while they’re under stay-at-home orders? Occasional in-person trysts once travel is possible? A time limit to whatever it is that they will have? Who can promise anything beyond today anyway? Timmy knows this, has lived this, and repeated “one day at a time” until it’s tattooed onto his retinas so it is the lens through which he sees the world. Timmy isn’t sure what “this” means but he is sure of one thing. Even if “this” is one day, he is certain of one thing.

“I didn’t get control over how I came out, Armie,” he finds that assertive tone he’s been practicing every time he’s had to put a mask on his face. “I would never take that choice from you.” Of this he’s certain. And he’s sure of one more thing. “I - I want you Armie, in whatever way, however much you’re willing to give me. I want you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've never said this but I love all comments (long, short, emoji, keyboard smash, anything), but I also welcome comments (here or tumblr) that are questions about writing this fic itself - head canons, choices I made, etc. So feel free if you're curious. Otherwise, carry on as you were.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all, you all have no idea how much your comments and kudos mean. I was in tears (happy happy tears) reading your comments on the last chapter. Everything from an emoji to a keyboard smash to a detailed description of what hit you the hardest, each of those are so moving. I am so grateful. 
> 
> Now I think our boys have earned a little fluff, don't you?

The next days stretch out to weeks to months, perhaps. Time has ceased to exist, at the worst of the quarantine, it feels like time has become mushy, no tasks, no structure to divide up the day and day-to-day. But at its best time stretches out infinitely, covering their lives like a warm protective blanket. And what could two new lovers want more than infinite time to spend with each other, finding out if the stories they made up about each other are true?

Timmy doesn’t know if they are. Lovers, that is. It’s the word his brain has supplied and latched onto, clings to like a baby monkey to its mother. He’s never had a lover. He casts Armie in that part, without ever telling him he auditioned.

Well he did tell him that he - but nevermind that.

Cast into these roles they get to know each other anew. And it goes like this.

Armie learns that Timmy uses his dishwasher as a drying rack and makes it his mission to teach Timmy to use the dishwasher.

He amends his goals to include teaching Timmy how to load the dishwasher. How to load it correctly, he further amends.

“No, no, no, that middle spot is where the water comes up. If you lean a bowl against it, it’s going to block everything else from getting clean.” Timmy flashes his eyes up at the screen, a mixture of annoyance and fondness evident in them.

“That seems like a design flaw.” Armie sighs a patient sigh.

“Put the forks in with the handle side down, otherwise the tines will bend,” Armie instructs.

“Tines?” A smile begins to curl itself up and around Timmy’s slightly crooked mouth.

“Prongs, whatever.” Armie rolls his eyes. “You should really use a rinse agent, it maximizes dishwasher’s potential. You pour it into the… you know what? Maybe just get those Cascade all-in-one packs.”

“Weren’t kids eating those on a dare and dying?” Timmy’s eyebrows furrow together, truly concerned with the health and safety of those teenagers.

“Those were Tide pods and...I’m sure you can read on the package where it says to not consume and follow directions,” Armie flashes his wide smile, the one that shows all his teeth, the one that bares this pointy canines. And Timmy loves that grin, wants to be the cause of it, to bask in it, to have it greet him everyday. He loves that grin and he tries to hide the anguish he feels, like marbles of each thing he’s fucked up filling his belly. Every time he saw the words “take as directed” and ignored them. Tries to hide it before Armie sees it.

It goes like this.

Timmy sends Armie _The Joy of Cooking_ to commemorate his tentative forays into the culinary arts and is only a little disappointed when Armie seems more intrigued by the diagrams for formal and informal table settings than how to whip up the perfect pancakes. (So he’s had a fantasy about waking up to Armie in nothing but pajama pants, standing at the stove, and turning around, his grin - that grin, the all-teeth pointy canine grin - widening at the sight of TImmy, framed by overnight stubble. So sue him.)

Armie sends Timmy a box containing the 1972 original of _The Joy of Sex_ and underneath it, Timmy finds a copy of _The Joy of Gay Sex._

“It’s important to be well-informed,” Armie says, his eyes lit up, sunlight reflecting off water, when Timmy asks him about the gifts, such as they are.

“Oh,_I’m_ informed are you?” The light in Armie’s eyes, the light in Armie goes out in an instant and Timmy is immediately consumed with desire to bite his words out of the air and swallow them deep inside him.

Timmy calls Armie his lover. To himself, who else would he be speaking to?

Timmy calls Armie his lover but Timmy doesn’t know what they are. What they are to each other. Where the boundaries around them are, where, having plotted themselves out on a map, would be the lines drawn that say this is us and this is what we will protect. These are the borders that we will go to war to protect, if needed. It matters less now when they can’t see anyone else, can’t do anything else but spend time together, but still he wonders.

He wonders and he feels compelled to tell Armie that Ansel reached out to him during a meeting. Ansel, whom they haven’t mentioned since that night. Ansel, who was Timmy’s first, who wasn’t so bad when they were together and alone, Ansel who was gentle with Timmy, asked for his cell phone number. He feels compelled to tell Armie and it feels like a confession.

“Uh, so Ansel was at the meeting again,” Timmy starts. He feels like he’s skating around a perimeter of something that doesn’t have the clean neat angles of a geometric shape and he doesn’t want to fall in. Wants to move to the center but is afraid the center is not strong enough yet, that it will not hold.

Armie’s eyes narrow, “He was?” No matter how many times Timmy tells him that it is okay, that seeing Ansel there doesn’t bother him, that they don’t have to interact. They wouldn’t have to interact anyway but everything being done by Zoom makes that even easier.

“Yeah, he’s been there nearly every week.” Timmy bites his bottom lip between his teeth while he observes Armie’s reaction.

“Okay,” Armie stretches out the word, worry reverberating through the syllables.

“He asked for my number,” Timmy continues, picking at a hangnail on his thumb. He has done nothing wrong. It is the right thing to tell Armie. It took him a long time to learn how to tell people things they don’t want to hear. He still struggles with it. The fear of getting in trouble, being yelled at, or, worse, so much worse, disappointing the other person. Letting them down. Allowing them to see he’s anything less than perfect. And that is the joke of it all, isn’t it? Because he’s so far from perfect and yet has convinced himself that perfect is what others expect of him.

But he’s done nothing wrong. Ansel has a right to be at these meetings. He can’t control that Ansel asked for his number but. “Did you give it to him?”

Timmy did nothing wrong and yet it feels like he’s going to get in trouble when he says, “Yes.” He then rushes to get out, “It’s habit. People are always asking for everyone else’s numbers in meetings. It’s not a big deal.”

Armie glances away and looks back with eyes so big Timmy could swim laps in the pool-blue. “What if he wants to get back together?”

Timmy huffs a laugh. “We were kids, Armie.”

“Yeah and now you’re not,” Armie pushes back. He runs his hand over his mouth before saying in a low tone, “Who wouldn’t regret letting you go?”

Timmy’s chest feels like it is simultaneously crumbling and melting and he says in a soft voice, a voice he hopes provides a pillow for Armie’s worry and insecurity, a place where he can lay those feelings down, the burden of them, “I really don’t think that’s what he wants. But - but” he pushes through as Armie’s mouth opens, before he can place more worry, more insecurity on his own shoulders, Timmy tries to speak fast enough to slip that pillow under him, let them fall from his shoulders, down and away from him, “But even if he did, he doesn’t get to make that decision himself. Even if he wanted me back, he doesn’t automatically get what he wants. You have to - please trust me, Armie?”

“I do, I do trust you,” Armie assures him. And Timmy hears that Armie doesn’t say, hears that Armie doesn’t know why Timmy would choose him. As if Timmy is some prize himself, he rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Rolls his eyes and shakes his head internally, doesn’t want Armie to think he doesn’t trust in Armie’s trust in him. He carries that trust like a rare and precious thing. No one, _no one,_ has ever trusted him before. He’s never given anyone a reason to but now he will prove to Armie, prove to himself, that he deserves it.

It goes like this.

They are watching _Brooklyn Nine Nine_ together, Jake can’t stop calling Holt his father, and Armie is folding laundry on his bed.

“No, no, no, you can’t fold socks like that,” Timmy interrupts, pausing his TV, as Armie rolls his socks into a ball, pulling the top of one over the ball to keep it in place

“How should I fold them?” Armie’s eyes are wide at the implication there is a correct way to fold socks, beyond just them being folded and not shoved in a drawer in a big ball of single socks.

The good thing about such a small apartment is that Timmy can easily reach over and pull a pair of clean socks from a drawer. The tops are folded down with the top of one sock folded to hold the top of its partner. Boticelli’s Venus can be seen inside-out, the black feet of the socks dangling loosely. “Like this.”

“That would look messier in the drawer,” Armie notes, after glancing at Timmy’s socks and then back to the TV.

“But this way you don’t stretch out your socks,” Timmy pushes back.

“This way I don’t stretch out my socks,” Armie drops his balled socks on top of the other folded laundry, crosses his arms, and gives Timmy a wry smile.

“...I guess a man with size fifteen feet doesn’t have to worry about that,” Timmy concludes with a huff.

Armie wiggles his toes at the screen. They’re painted pink after he got bored one afternoon and went through Liz’s bathroom. That day, he painted his toes and did a face mask while soaking in a bubble bath and found he really liked all three. “Well you know what they say about men with big feet...”

“Armie!”

“What? All I was going to say is that they wear big socks….get your mind out of the gutter.”

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars,” Timmy quotes, his mouth taking the shape of a perfect pout.

“And the stars in this situation are…” Armie’s lips twitch with a smile aching to break free, the corners of his eyes beginning to point upward.

Timmy pulls his bottom lip between his teeth in response and lets out a small, low noise that starts from the back of his throat and pries its way through his lips.

Armie’s eyes widen and he licks his lips, “Oh, did that get you? That did it for you? Folding socks and thinking about my big cock…”

“Armie,” Timmy chokes out, palming himself.

“My big cock filling you up,”

“I want…” Timmy whimpers.

“I know, I know. And you would take it so well, your pretty pink hole stretching so perfectly.” Armie has learned that Timmy likes a little talk, they both do now. Whatever they might have preferred before, something needs to take the place of physical touch. Armie has learned that he melts at the slightest hint of praise.

He talks Timmy through coming, through the amount of pressure of his fist on his cock (just this side of not enough), through fucking into himself with hastily lubed fingers (“add a third, I know you can take it, let me see how you’ll take me, show me you can, there you go, so good, so perfect for me”). He talks Timmy through coming while he quickly shoves his shorts around his ankles, flings them to the end of his bed. Talks him through coming as he strokes himself, teases his own hole with a knuckle (when Timmy first saw Armie finger himself open and his mouth dropped open and his eyes when wide, Armie laughed and said, “I’m thirty-three, do I strike you as a blushing virgin?” and Timmy came nearly untouched at those words, at that sight, at that image.)

They both rewind the episode after they’ve cleaned up. Something is going on with Rosa and they don’t want to miss it. She’s their favorite.

It goes like this.

Timmy finally asks Armie about his incompetent assistant.

“Huh?” Armie looks up from the bread he’s kneading and back down. He already admitted, with embarrassment, that he’s fallen victim to the quarantine trend of wanting to make sourdough, got a starter and everything. Timmy’s already teased him, asked him if there would be “tang for days.” He also watched, saliva pooling in his mouth, as Armie kneaded his first bread dough with large, confident hands. He’s also asked if Armie thought bread could be shipped. Not that he’s a huge fan of sourdough, it’s _fine,_ he just wants to be able to hold something Armie has held, consume it, have it be a part of him forever, something those firm hands have loved, carefully but with strength, pushed into, massaged. Timmy imagines those same hands on his waist, his ass, pulling his cheeks apart.

“You assistant. The one you said was incompetent and so I should email you instead?” Timmy rests his chin in his hands, watching Armie’s hands in the soft-firm dough.

“Oh,” Armie glances up again and back down at the dough. “I don’t have an assistant.” He turns around to get something on the counter behind him, places his hands flat on the counter, and takes several deep breaths. Timmy hadn’t known there was even the potential for landmine here. And yet he feels like he’s stepped on one, heard the click, and now can’t move.

He quickly catalogues all the information he knows about Mr. Delli Santi, having combed through his credit card statements to make and submit expense reports, having called him late at night with an urgent work concern and had him pick up, breathless, distracted. He knows without a doubt that Mr. Delli Santi is gay. Timmy is discreet. It’s part of the job. He immediately connects the dots of a puzzle he didn’t even realize was there to solve and, “I get it.” Armie turns around, glances quickly at the screen and away again, swallowing hard. Timmy longs to run a finger along Armie’s adam’s apple, before sinking his hand into his hair, to pet him, pull on it a little, comfort him, ground him, with his touch. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t...I get it, okay?”

“Yeah,” Armie glances up again and then back down and begins kneading the dough. “Okay.”

Timmy feels a hollow ache and doesn’t know how to get back to where they had been moments before.

Ansel calls Timmy and Timmy picks up, practiced as he is after two years of picking even unknown numbers. Because it could always be someone in need, someone Timmy can help, and that piece, the helping of other addicts, the fellowship, is a pillar of Timmy’s recovery.

“Timmy?” A slightly familiar voice asks when Timmy picks up.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Ansel,” says the familiar voice, deeper and more mature. “I’m glad you were willing to give me your number.”

“Sure, of course,” Timmy rushes to say and wants to say he’s used to it, that of course he did, as he would to anyone in a meeting asking for his number, because that’s what you do - ask for and give numbers. He wants Ansel to know he’s not special, but he doesn’t.

“Listen,” Ansel continues. “I did my steps, three, four years ago when I got clean.”

Timmy does not want to have any feelings that Ansel got clean before he did. It’s ridiculous to feel jealous of that. And yet.

“I didn’t know where you were, how to reach you, when I was doing step nine. But then when I saw you in the meeting, I knew I had to, you know, reach out. I had you down for my step eight.”

Timmy hadn’t realized he was shaky and sweaty until it suddenly stops, until everything slots into place. Of course. Step eight is making a list of all the people harmed by the addict, living and dead. Step nine is making direct amends to those people wherever possible, except when to do so would cause them or others more harm.

He hears Ansel take a deep breath. He knows the feeling, knows it well, can easily imagine the piece of paper in front of him, pen ink stretched out, the shape of words, things crossed out, rewritten, reworded. Unless Ansel is smart, and does his in pencil so he can erase. Timmy’s hands were always stained blue after working on his steps, he never learned to use a pencil.

“I’m sorry for being the first to offer you drugs. I apologize for encouraging you to use narcotics to get high instead of as directed by your doctor. I am sorry for encouraging you, for coaching you on how to get more pills from your doctors and for introducing you to dealers. And I’m, I’m sorry for how I treated you when we were...I’m sorry for asking you to keep that a secret.” Timmy listens carefully, allows the words to wash over him, running over him and settling in empty spots, where there is room, where Timmy hadn’t realized there had been holes, small pinpricks that could now heal.

“Thank you, Ansel, I appreciate it. I - I forgive you.” Timmy knows this step is not about seeking forgiveness or absolution from the other person, it is about the addict forgiving themselves. Timmy also knows how it feels to be forgiven, when that forgiveness is freely and easily given.

“That’s, yeah, thanks Timmy. I’m glad to see you’re doing well, to see you in the rooms.”

“Yeah, same to you.”

“Okay, well I’ll see you around then.”

“Sure, of course. Stay safe.”

Ansel laughs and Timmy joins in, that phrase becoming more commonplace, not having quite the same meaning now as it used to when two addicts might have said it to each other. “Yeah, Timmy, you too, stay safe.”

Timmy ends the call and immediately starts to press Armie’s name to call him but remembers to call Saoirse first. She senses immediately and gives him no room to hide, “What’s the rush Timo?”

“What?” He hears his voice crack and winces. “No rush.”

“Mmhm.”

“I just - I was going to call Armie,” he admits but feels the need to justify the draw, like a magnet. “He’s my - we’re seeing each other.”

“I know,” Saoirse says quietly.

“Y-you don’t approve?” It’s not in her job description to approve or not approve, but he longs for her approval anyway. It’s something they’ve been working on. “I thought you wanted me to find a relationship.”

“I did, I do. I’m just,” she sighs. “I’m worried you’ll be hurt.”

“That’s - life. What? Should I never try anything because I might get hurt?”

“No, I just, I care about you,” she admits. Timmy knows it’s a hard won acknowledgement, she usually has a tough love attitude. It’s why he chose her as his sponsor, he needed someone who wouldn’t be easy on him, someone who would be tough and toughen him up. “But you’re right. That’s life. Go, call your boyfriend.”

And Timmy does. Does it so fast there’s no space or time to think about Saoirse’s certainty that he will be hurt, that Armie will hurt him. Even if unintentionally. Even if he knows Armie now, knows him enough to realize would hurt himself before anyone else. Knows him enough to know that he would hurt himself not realizing that others, that Timmy, would be hurt by the hurting of himself.

So Timmy does. He calls Armie. “Hey, hi,” he’s breathless with it.

“Hey,” a lazy grin spreads across Armie’s face.

“Yeah so Ansel called me?” Timmy’s feeling of being relieved, of being relieved at the realization that all Ansel wanted was to make amends, that feeling is rapidly turning over into anxiety. Because he knows Armie, he’s gotten to know Armie, but he suddenly realizes that emotions, feelings, aren’t rational, don’t follow logic, and what he feels is good news might not land that way.

“Oh yeah?” Timmy sees the effort in Armie’s face to not show his worry, a protective worry, and that the effort to hide it is protective too.

“He wanted, he actually just wanted to make amends, ugh,” he pauses, he forgets about translating 12 step speak into English, “to apologize to me. For his behavior back - back when we knew each other.”

The effort of holding back worry disappears and Armie’s face relaxes in minute muscular shifts, everything smoothing out. “That’s, that’s, I’m glad to hear that. You deserve to get that apology.”

They talk for hours, touching here and there, on Ansel’s apology, what, if anything, it changes for Timmy. What, if anything, it changes for Timmy to know he’s in recovery too. And Armie listens. Armie sets aside the worry that something from Timmy’s past will yank him from him. That something about Armie will push Timmy away. That he will lose him. Timmy sees him set that aside and pushes a hope out into the universe that he doesn’t feel the need to pick it up again, at some later time, at some time when Timmy isn’t there on the phone with him, his presence providing reassurance. Much like homemade bread, Timmy wonders if his hope can be shipped across the country and arrive unspoiled.

It goes like this.

They talk for hours and Timmy misses Armie. Misses parts of him he’s never met. He wants to sleep with a suitcase on his chest just to feel the weight of something, something like someone, pushing back against him, grounding him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It wouldn’t be me if I didn’t sneak in some low-key h/c. I would be remiss if I didn’t thank [LostCol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostCol) and always, always, always iworshipyou_oliver for important inspiration for this chapter. You’ll notice a bit of a time jump here and then the next chapter will have another time jump to the part that I think we’re all waiting for…
> 
> Thank you each a million times over for every comment, kudos, and reaching out on tumblr about this fic. I try to respond to each and forgive me if I struggle to say anything more original than “thank you thank you thank you” because you honestly all leave me speechless.

The email comes on a Tuesday. Armie quickly opens his work email, still sweaty from his run, iced-coffee in his hand, bent over the table, just glancing quickly through the subject lines to see if there are any fires occurring on eastern standard time that need putting out. When he sees Nick’s name, he clicks on it, something like a buzzing starts in his ears. 

June 30, 2020

Armie,

Timmy is out sick today and there was a gap in his notes about the projected ROI for Gless Inc. Do you have those numbers handy?

-Nick

Nicholas Delli Santi  
Senior Vice President, Marketing  
Ivory Advertising

Armie feels a piece of him go still and quiet. The sweat still pooling on his skin, in the small of his back, on his upper lip, suddenly chills. He sets his glass down, heedless of the ring it will leave, and strips his clothes off as he walks towards his shower. He stands underneath the shower head, letting the water, hot as he can stand it, beat down on his shoulders. He breathes in and breathes out. 

He and Timmy have been doing...whatever this is for a couple of months now. He would have contacted Armie if he was sick, wouldn’t he? Unless, he couldn’t? That thought takes up space in his mind, rent free, unless you count the sick feeling that slides down his chest and lands somewhere in his belly as appropriate restitution. He tries to evict the thought, tries to focus instead on each water droplet as it lands, hot and splashing, on his skin, and he tries to follow each one as it sluices down his body and onto the tile below him. 

However often he turns his attention to the rough towel drying his skin, his fingers combing through his wet hair, his shirt and shorts sticking to his skin still-damp skin, however often he turns his attention, the other thoughts are stickier, louder, refusing to be ignored.

Timmy _would_ contact him if he was sick.

Unless he couldn’t.

Unless he couldn’t.

He flips back through his memories, like the rolodex that used to sit on his grandfather’s desk at his office. Flips through them, examining each one for a slightest bit of evidence that Timmy was getting sick. That there had been some warning that Armie was careless enough not to heed. They have been doing this - 

(Whatever this is, Armie has wanted to ask but has been afraid that putting words to something will draw a boundary around something that is, for him, boundaryless. He doesn’t want to learn that there are boundaries around Timmy’s feelings, that there are limits. If he doesn’t know, they don’t exist.) 

-for over two months. Armie knows Timmy as well as he has known anyone else. He knows Timmy better than he knows himself. Timmy allows himself to be seen in ways Armie has always hidden. Armie knows Timmy has had little choice in this, in baring himself, that it became a matter of death or staying alive but he has met the necessity of it with courage. And, in doing so, did more than stay alive, did more than tread water enough to keep his nose above the surface. He did it with courage, courage Armie doesn’t know he would have, even given no choice at all. 

He knows Timmy and he hadn’t seen him getting sick.

He calls Timmy and it immediately rings to voicemail.

His mind fingers through the rolodex cards even faster than before, flipping through before landing on the one. The memory of that night. The night he said “I’m sorry” and hung up. The night he paced the beach all night, not feeling the cold, not hearing the crashing waves. Paced, heedless of the sand shifting under his feet. The wind and his fingers tearing at his hair. Not sure what he was wishing for - was it that he wished he had not let his desire for him slip through his grasp, or did he wish that he had not hung up on Timmy, that he had answered him.

_“I love you.” _

_“You can’t possibly, you don’t know me, and, if you did, you wouldn’t. I want to stop time here, here with you loving me. Let me stop time here with a gift I do not, will never, deserve so that I may hold it and not have it ripped from my arms. Let me hold it before I have new memories of losing it.”_

This time he calls back immediately and it rings. 

“Hello?” Timmy’s voice is thick and scratchy. 

“Timmy?” Armie tries to keep the warring worry and relief and anger at having been worried, pushed down and away. And there’s worry, still there, because Timmy picking up the phone means exactly nothing except that he is someplace where he has access to his phone. Probably not the hospital then, Armie considers. Should Timmy go to the hospital? What is Armie’s role here? This feels like identifying a limit, a boundary. 

“Yeah? Armie? What are you - ?” They usually reserve talking until after business hours, eastern coast time (Armie is only human, okay?). 

“Nick said you were out sick,” Armie’s voice is edge-hard, trying to hold back the deluge of worry, relief, anger, worry, relief, anger, worry, relief, anger that are a whirlpool in his chest.

“You’re checking up on me?” Timmy croaks, whether from disbelief, sleepiness, illness, or all three, Armie is uncertain.

“What? No. He emailed me with a question, something missing from your notes.” Armie wonders whether he should feel something about the fact that Timmy seems to automatically assume Armie’s concern is work-related. Armie wonders if he has done something, given an unintended hint or clue somewhere, that would lead Timmy to think that Armie would put work over them. 

“Wait, what’s missing from my notes?” Timmy suddenly sounds more alert. 

“Timmy that’s not the point.” They had been working on Timmy being a little less perfect with his note-taking, letting go just a little. Although not “working on” Armie doesn’t like that, doesn’t like the dynamic that sets up. 

“Okay?” Timmy sighs and sounds fatigued again.

“Are you, are you sick?” Armie hears the worry he’s been trying to hold back spill into his voice, not a lot, but a drop of ink colors the water, drop by drop.

“Ugh,” Armie wishes he could see him, get a better sense, a feel for that ugh. “Yes, kinda, I don’t know. Not really?”

“Not really?” 

“Are you asking as CFO or as…” Timmy lets his voice trail off.

“As… not as CFO, Timmy, of course not.” Something like a claw grasps at the edges of his chest.

“Then, I don’t know. It’s allergies, maybe? Or that quarantine fatigue that everyone’s talking about? Or, I don’t know. I just needed to sleep.” Timmy’s voice is sleepy, this is a voice Armie is familiar with. 

“But - “ Armie begins, not wanting to ask but needing to know. 

“No cough, no fever,” Timmy assures him. 

“No cough, no fever,” Armie repeats. 

“I would have...if it had been, I would have, Armie, okay?” Timmy sounds almost desperate, pleading, and Armie wishes again he could see him. 

“Then why didn’t you tell me about this?” Armie pushes. He needs to know, craves that reassurance, that who he is to Timmy is at least a fraction of who he wishes he could be. 

“Because, ugh, god, what you wanted to listen to me whine about how I still can’t really go outside? That I’m fucking jealous of your beach and getting to run every day when _I don’t even run_ because even if I go outside, it’s New York in summer and it’s gross fucking human soup and it smells like a dumpster fire but I miss it and everything blends together one day into the next and I don’t know when this is going to end or if it ever will because nothing is going back to normal, not that normal was that great, and I just wanted a day to sleep and escape it all. I thought if I could just sleep today, I would feel better. And then by tonight...” A valve has opened and the words come spilling forth and trail off.

They reserve talking until after business hours but will text non-stop throughout the day so fuck Timmy very much for thinking he could get through today without Armie noticing, by pretending everyhing is okay. And fuck him for thinking Armie wouldn’t want to know. That this would be a burden, instead it feels like a boundary on what Timmy believes is between them, a limit to what he feels for Armie, who Armie is, what Armie represents in his life. 

Armie doesn’t say that. 

Armie wants to ask so many questions like why didn’t Timmy think he could tell him all this and wasn’t whatever they had enough to make this hellish situation a little better and maybe the second answered the first but instead he asks, “Do you want to come here, to stay here? By the beach, I have, we have another room, it wouldn’t have to like - “

“No,” Timmy says sadly. “Thank you though. This is a me thing, not a you thing, and not, not an us thing, okay?” 

“Okay.”

The doubt must be evident in his voice. “Please believe me? Armie?”

“Can I see you?”

“I - I look, ugh, no,” Timmy concludes. 

“Timmy,” Armie’s voice is a low rumble. 

“I’m probably just going back to sleep and you have to work,” Timmy’s voice is almost a whine and Armie should find that annoying but instead it’s kind of endearing. 

“Yeah, and the problem there is?” 

“Ugh, okay, fine.” Timmy hangs up and calls back on FaceTime a moment later and Armie picks up on his tablet. Armie tries to inspect him without seeming obvious. Timmy’s curls are matted and slightly greasy, and less curly because of it. There are violet circles under his eyes, which are shot through with streaks of red, and there’s a pink flush around his nose and on his cheeks. And god dammit if he doesn’t look even more beautiful. 

Timmy sets his phone up so it is tilted down and facing his bed, he wraps himself back up in his comforter, his head nestling into the indent in his pillow. He grabs a hold of a hoodie and holds it close to his chest. Armie has seen Timmy sleep countless times now, knows he often clutches a hoodie to him, has wondered about sending Timmy one of his own old hoodies, probably his college sweatshirt, but has never followed up on that thought with a surprise package or even a question. He doesn’t want to assume and he doesn’t want the answer. Within minutes, he hears Timmy’s snuffle-snores through the speaker of his tablet. 

He’s tired, Armie thinks. They start talking at close of business east coast time and finally go to bed, or fall asleep mid-conversation, when it’s late, west coast time. Every night, at several points one of them will say, “well we should probably…”

But there’s this problem of wanting, wanting more. They act as though they are starved for each other. They have more hours available to them, stretching out with so little to interrupt, to distract them, and they both act, they both do, Armie reassures himself, like they need more.

More time for conversation and more time for sex, fucking, making love, all the words Armie thinks to himself but doesn’t say. He doesn’t need to say them, they just act. For all their long conversations, they don’t discuss them, who they are to each other, what is happening between them.

And somehow easily, without trying, conversation shifts and it slides, and somehow they have gone from discussing what type of books they buy at Hudson News at the airport because both of them get anxious that they will finish the book they packed and then be left without or they will start the book they packed and decide they don’t like it, and then be left without. They share an anxiety about being left without reading material. So even though Timmy tends to slide up to his gate just as boarding is finishing (“Why would I spend any extra time at the airport?”) and Armie tends to get there early enough to purchase and drink a coffee, sitting patiently in one of the too-small plastic chairs, they both always pick up an extra book in the airport. Timmy prefers paperback mysteries and Armie prefers whatever biography he can find. 

Somehow they will be talking about Timmy’s love of the Pete Fernandez series and in seemingly the next moment, Timmy will be on all fours, back towards the camera, as Armie’s voice, breaking and crackling in the air around him, encourages him, tells him he knows he can, he can take just one more bead. As Armie tries to keep his voice steady and his hand just slowly stroking himself, not allowing himself more, not wanting to be distracted, as Timmy lays his cheek against his bed, thighs spread wide, one hand stroking himself, and the other playing with the beads in his ass. Doesn’t want to miss the moment when Timmy’s slender pale thighs start trembling, his hips thrust an erratic rhythm as his fist flies. Doesn’t want to miss the moment when he groans out “Now Timmy” and watches as his hole clenches around beads popping out as he moans into the mattress, and paints the sheets below him with his release. Timmy reaches blindly behind himself until he grabs his tablet and looks at Armie with one eye, the other still mashed into the mattress, his curls sweat-stuck to his forehead, his lips bitten-red and saliva slick, his voice breathless and wrecked, “Show me, Armie, please?” And when he asks so prettily like that, Armie can’t help but tilt the camera down to show Timmy, and watches as Timmy’s tongue darts out, licks his lips, as he shifts his head so he can watch with both eyes, as his breathing speeds up again as he watches Armie get himself off. And that’s how they stay up far too late for Timmy’s schedule, if his sleeping through Armie’s conference call is any indication. 

Armie is able to grab a few more hours of sleep than Timmy is whenever they finally hang up at night, in the early morning, as the sun is beginning to rise in NYC, and he’s just wired to need less, he thinks. 

He doesn’t want Timmy to be sick, of course he doesn’t, he’s not a monster. But there’s something about Timmy being sick, that tugs at him, that makes him wish more than ever they weren’t separated by miles and by a pandemic. That makes him wish he could make Timmy tea with honey and make him sit at the table while he changes his bedsheets to fresh ones that have not been damp with sick-sweat, that he could attempt to make some chicken soup. He has an image of helping Timmy sit up against his headboard and carrying a bowl of soup over and it’s not the worst image in the world but Armie feels instantly guilty because he shouldn’t want that. Shouldn’t want Timmy to be sick ever. But if he has to be, if this quarantine fatigue, plus a summer cold, has knocked him out for a day, Armie wants to be there. As it is, he can only watch as Timmy rolls over in his sleep and pretend to be present for the conference call while he looks up “best chicken soup in NYC” and orders delivery. 

He knows Timmy will pout and protest at the delivery, and the prospect of that does bring a small smile to the edges of his mouth. He wants Timmy to feel Armie’s arms around him, Armie tucked around him the way his comforter is now, and Armie does not know how else to care for him except what comes naturally - spend money. It’s all he’s ever known. Even with Liz, he shows he cares best with the house they live in, with making sure she never has to worry about her photography being profitable, by listening when she talks about places she might visit someday and buying tickets, booking hotels, organizing her friends to travel with her. 

He doesn’t know how to care the way Timmy does. Timmy has a way of making Armie feel secure and held, something he had assumed he was just too much - too tall, too masculine, too much - for. Timmy has given Armie something that feels like courage. It’s not courage but perhaps its cousin, next-door neighbor. Something close enough to courage that Armie allowed himself to grab that bottle of pink nail polish when he was in Liz’s bathroom looking under the sink for a band aid, twirled it around between his fingers, letting the lighting bounce off it. Something close enough to courage that pushed Armie’s head further into the cabinet and found a bottle of bubble bath and a sheet mask. Something close enough to courage that allowed him to say “fuck it” and grab them and walk, slightly faster than normal, to his bathroom. 

Something close enough to courage but not courage because when Timmy FaceTimed him, while he was surrounded by bubbles, his painted toes hanging over the edge of the soaker tub, he declined the call. Took a selfie of his face covered in the hydrating sheet and sent it with the caption “in the bath.” Something close enough to courage that when Timmy immediately called back, he picked up, feeling heat that had nothing to do with the temperature of the water, rising from his chest to his cheeks. That part was not courage. Pulling the sheet off his face was also not courage. But meeting Timmy’s eyes, expecting to see teasing, gentle mocking, but instead warmth, warmth framed with a slight head tilt and a gentle smile on slightly parted lips. 

Their call had proceeded as though Armie, dewy and damp, sprawled in a tub, covered in bubbles was an everyday occurrence. Except it wasn’t. Armie felt slightly self-conscious, had felt that way even before Timmy’s call, and now under Timmy’s gaze, he felt his skin prickle with vigilance with every tug of Timmy’s lip between his teeth, every time Timmy’s eyes seemed to leave his own, until he was shifting around, sloshing the bathwater a bit. Until Timmy noticed, until Timmy made him pan down the tub to where Armie’s cock was hard and jutting out of the water. 

“Is that - is that for me?” Timmy’s voice as smooth and warm as a just drawn bath. 

“Timmy.” Armie’s voice cracks, could burst the bubbles that surround him with its edges. 

“Just sitting here, lounging in the tub, talking to me, and _look at you.”_

“I - “

“Just look at you. If I was there…”

“If you were here?” Armie trailed his fingers up and down his length. Lightly, almost more of a tickle really.

“I would, fuck,” the word spills from Timmy’s slightly crooked lips. “Fuck, I would get in that tub with you.”

“Fully dressed?”

“I wouldn’t care, I would want to be able to feel your body pressed up against mine.”

“Yeah?”

“Feel each muscle flex as I wrap my hand around you.”

“Probably make a mess.”

“Not the only mess we would make.” 

“Is that a threat?”

“A promise...show me Armie, show me how you want me to touch you.” This is a common refrain between them “show me, show me how.” 

Armie had come that day, feeling light, weightless, more than floating in the bathwater, surrounded now by dissipating bubbles, come, would explain. Armie who runs at the first hint of something more, wanted to stay in that space, protected and away and _with Timmy._ Wants to stay. 

Armie glances at Timmy, still sleeping on the screen, and hopes that he can give Timmy today that same feeling as floating in a bubble bath, having just been talked through an orgasm by his lover, who never mocked, never shamed, never made Armie feel less than. He longs to give Timmy the feeling Timmy has given him without ever having touched him. 

Armie who has been pushed away because he isn’t, can’t give, enough, hopes against the hard boundaried edge of a thing that Timmy will allow him to stay. Because. 

Because he misses him. Timmy. He misses Timmy. He misses doing things with him, for him, to him, they’ve never done together before. He misses the feeling of him. Longs to lie down next to him, as he sleeps, limbs at odd angles like matchsticks dropped on the ground, longs to lie beside those slender limbs and feel the strength of them pushed up against him, creating a fortress between them and the world, protecting him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Write about them meeting for the first time, they said. It will be fun, they said. 
> 
> This chapter is brought to you by writing sprints with some amazing writers, lots of coffee, and the Magnetic Fields. Also, I love how the other authors in this fandom that I’ve spoken to seem to agree November is when these guys will be able to unite (or reunite) after quarantine. From fic writers fingers to whoever is in charge of these things.

**November 2020 **

Armie wants Timmy to know that he will wait for him like this forever. He’s leaning back against the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest, and a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He opened the door just moments ago to a Timmy so excited Armie thought he could see him vibrating, his smile nearly lifting off his face, his arms full with a paper sack, and a big backpack on his shoulders. He let him into the company’s rental apartment, the one that they kept for important clients when they visited for meetings. The one that had sat empty for nearly seven months, until the spread was slow enough and the cases were low enough and the testing was accessible enough that Armie and Ivory Advertising decided it was safe enough for Armie to fly out for an important client meeting. Armie and Timmy examined it together, made sure it wasn’t eagerness to see each other that was pushing forward Armie’s decision that this was the client worth flying across the country for.

He had opened the door to Timmy and let Timmy into the apartment and now he’s watching him, drinking him in. Timmy’s beautifully wide smile takes up half his face and he chats excitedly about how Armie is finally going to get to taste his favorite bagels after Armie has been having them delivered to Timmy every morning during quarantine, and still is. Delivery having been suspended for the upcoming week. They were getting a weekend together on either end of the work week. Armie feels a thing bloom in his chest. The thing feels like hope.

He tries not to name it, tries not to focus on it. He tries to focus instead on Timmy’s fingers, even more delicate than he thought they would be, as they rearrange the bagels and pull out the cream cheese to place in the refrigerator, already full of groceries the company ensured were stocked for Armie’s visit.

After Timmy folds down the top of the paper bag, the edges now soft and slightly frayed from where he had been holding it, worrying it. As he folds down the top and smooths it for the tenth time, he glances up and catches Armie gazing at him.

“Armie,” he breathes out.

“Timmy,” Armie breathes in. He loosens his arms and lets them drop to his sides and Timmy crosses the few feet from where he was standing at the counter, letting his back back drop with a thud on the ground. He has his laptop and tablet in there along with his clothes. Assistants are still working remotely to allow enough space in the office to maintain the still recommended social distance guidelines. Armie vaguely hopes nothing broke before that thought is chased from his mind by Timmy fitting himself under Armie’s chin, his long arms winding their way around him, and pressing himself to Armie in a hug.

Armie’s heart speeds up as he realizes this is the first time they are touching. Actually being in the same room, breathing the same air, and touching. He buries his nose in Timmy’s curls, which are wild from the wind outside, and inhales. He inhales warmth and clean and a scent that is at once all Timmy and home.

He pulls Timmy into his chest and measures the weight of him. He’s slender and pale but his body also bears a strength that Armie wasn’t expecting. He knew Timmy was strong but he didn’t realize how firmly grounded he would feel in his arms. Armie is used to being assumed to be the strong one; he’s used to disappointing others.

Timmy tilts his head up, his eyes shiny summer ponds, and he gets up on his toes and Armie immediately feels as though any last defensive armor has been laid down. Timmy presses a kiss to Armie’s lips. It starts gently, Armie holds Timmy’s face in his hands, rubbing his thumbs along his cliff-edge cheekbones, as they come together again and again, lips meeting. Armie wants to stay just like this, kissing like teenagers in their first make out underneath the stairs in the corner of the school, learning every curve and taste of Timmy’s smile. He feels Timmy melt into him, trusting Armie to hold him up with an honesty that Armie is uncertain he has earned, and his mouth opens wide, like he wants to swallow Armie whole. The melting into and the swallowing of, a push and pull of their joining, as though through some way or another he will learn how to become one with Armie.

Armie pushes Timmy’s chin just a little, closing his mouth, adding some resistance to the kiss, as he moans into the point where their lips are joined and that releases something and suddenly they’re grasping at each other, Timmy’s fingers entangled in Armie’s hair, Armie fisting the back of Timmy’s shirt, the desperation of all those months, of being touched starved for life-sustaining nourishment they never before had. Like they can finally breathe for the first time.

Armie feels Timmy’s hips making micro thrusts against his hip and he’s uncertain if Timmy even realizes his body is seeking out that friction. He slides a hand down Timmy’s back and marvels that his hand spans the width of Timmy’s ass, and pulls him tightly against his thigh. Timmy pulls back, those summer ponds are ablaze, and he whispers, “Armie.”

Armie. He wants to hear his name whispered, shouted, moaned from those lips for as long as Timmy will allow him. It spurs him to action, walking them, still wrapped up in each other, across the apartment and to the bedroom. Armie stops when the backs of his knees hit the bed frame. He kisses Timmy like grabbing a breath before diving deep and pulls back.

He pulls back and Timmy’s eyes, slightly wild, search his own. He drinks Timmy in, a pink cloud has landed on his cheeks, his hair bears the impact of Armie’s hands greedily twisting curls around his fingers to hold Timmy in place, as if had he not gripped him tightly enough, he might find his arms empty. His shoulders move up and down as he tries to catch his breath, as he tilts his body against Armie’s again, as though he’s certain Armie has made a mistake in pulling away.

Armie pulls away again, as painful as it is, as much as it feels as impossible as pulling one of his own limbs forcibly from his body, he knows it will hurt more. One day in the future it will hurt more to not have a memory of this first time. If they fast forward now, Armie won’t be able to slow it down some time in his memory in the future when he does not have this. When he does have Timmy, eager and panting, in his arms, looking at him, pupils large enough to drown in if he lets himself go, looking at him like he’s his whole world. Armie wants to live in the moment when he’s Timmy’s whole world.

Timmy’s eyebrows furrow together in an unasked question. Armie hardly recognizes his voice, a hoarse whispers that asks, pleads, “Let me?” Timmy nods slowly, his eyes never leaving Armie’s, the trust in them something that sits on Armie’s shoulders and in his throat.

Armie sinks to his knees and unties Timmy’s right boot and then his left, gently prying each foot from the floor to remove each, then socks, as Timmy rests his hands on Armie’s shoulders, that trust made palpable, made physical. He caresses each foot, with their high arches, softer than he imagined. He glances up at Timmy who is watching his every move, eyes cast downward, eyelashes creating half-moon shadows on the cliff-edges of his cheekbones, his mouth, reddened from their biting, frantic kisses, slightly opened, the tip of his tongue just resting on his full bottom lip.

Armie reaches up and unbuttons and unzips Timmy’s trousers and slides his hands between his pants and his boxer briefs, he wants to rest them there, soaking up the heat from Timmy’s skin, but he loops his thumbs over the waistband and slides the slim gray trousers over the small half-globes of his ass and over jutting hipbones, until they puddle around Timmy’s narrow ankles. Timmy sits back on the bed to kick them the rest of the way off and Armie lets his head drop to Timmy’s thigh, just letting himself rest there, his eyes gently closed, on the softness of his skin where it disappears into his underpants, the tickle of the faint hair there against his nose, and the scent of Timmy, more intense and with more musk than when he had inhaled him during their first hug, their first contact.

His hands rest on each of Timmy’s thighs and his mouth waters at the scent of Timmy’s arousal and he mouths at the cotton where the outline of Timmy’s hard length is evident. The soundtrack of their ragged breathing in harmony is suddenly disrupted by a hitch in Timmy’s breathing, as Armie soaks the cotton, trying to get the head of Timmy’s cock into his mouth despite its cotton confines. He whines when Armie’s teeth graze him slightly, gently, and Armie moans around the taste of precome that soaks Timmy’s briefs further, his fingers digging into the soft flesh where Timmy’s legs meet his groin, likely leaving half-moon bruises, mirror images of the shadows on Timmy’s cheeks. When Timmy’s whimpers become impatient and he moves to take off his sweater, Armie quickly scrambles to his feet and bats away Timmy’s hands, guiding him down onto the mattress, muttering, “Mine, mine, mine” under his breath as he slides the oversized sweater up, slowly revealing the pale skin beneath. The sight of the ivory expanse, decorated with freckles here and there, punches Armie in the chest and forces him to gasp for breath.

Timmy shimmies and lifts up slightly to help Armie remove his sweater entirely. He’s laid out on the bed, soaked boxer briefs, the head of his cock poking out the top of his waistband, his curls a wild halo, his cheeks scarlet and matched to his spit-slicked lips, his chest heaving with panting breaths, and his eyes squeezed shut as though he is trying to protect himself from it all being too much, too much, too much. Armie spreads his hands over Timmy’s abdomen, easily covering his narrow body as his fingers slot into the spaces between Timmy’s ribs. He slides up Timmy’s body, pushing away any atoms that dare to invite themselves between their bodies. He presses kisses, soft and wet, over Timmy’s face until he is, eyes still closed, searching for Armie’s lips with his own and Armie gives in like breaking through the surface, like finally taking a breath, touching their lips together, just resting there, like gulping in air. Timmy’s tongue licks at the seam of Armie’s lips and they lie there like that making out, time, the twin of distance and, for once, not their enemy, stretching out in front of them like a lazy cat, relishing its spot in the sun.

At some point they realize how hard they both are. At some point they realize that Armie is still fully dressed. At some point they realize their growing need for more, more, more.

Armie pulls away from Timmy, who whines at the loss of contact, but watches him through hooded dilated eyes as Armie shucks his clothes as quickly as he can before sliding back onto the bed and pulling Timmy on top of him. Their legs tangle with each other as their kissing becomes more frenetic. Armie feels Timmy begin to thrust again (or has he continued to thrust… time as a suddenly and seemingly infinite resource blends together, not in the murky sludge like quarantine but in a hazy dreamlike state) against his hip, thrusts that begin to some internal rhythm but quickly become erratic as Timmy mouths at Armie’s neck, his forehead pushing into his cheek.

“Timmy,” Armie husks out, placing a hand on the small of Timmy’s back, not trying to stop his movements or speed them along, just resting there, feeling him existing in the world as something tangible. “What do you want?” Timmy stills and looks up at him, those green ponds gleaming. “Anything you want. You want to come like this?” The hand on Timmy’s back places a little more pressure. “You want me to get on my knees and suck you off? I’ll - I’ll do it… I’ll do anything, Timmy, just - “

“You,” Timmy’s whisper crackles at the edges, blown with lust and energy, “please, Armie, just you, can, can you - “

“Fuck yes, yes, I’ll,” Armie tries to hold Timmy in place on top of him while he reaches around the bedstand to the drawer with the lube.

He had unpacked it and put it away so as not to be presumptuous, even though, even though their hours long calls had become nothing but “When I see you, I’m going to…” as the weeks, days, leading up to this week inched their way along, in a slow steady march. Timmy watches his fumbling grasps and bites a his lip between his teeth. Now that they’re finally in person, Armie longs to run his thumb over that lip, releasing it from the slightly crooked teeth, soothing it with his touch, with a lick, a kiss. Longs to feel the indents left from that nervous habit and soothe them to calmness. But right now, right now he has one arm filled with naked, sweaty, squirming Timmy and the other hand grasping the lube.

He had put the lube away, not wanting to seem presumptuous, but he had, after purchasing it (he had not placed it on the list of groceries he requested the company supply the apartment with) on his way from the airport, he had unscrewed the cap and removed the safety foil seal, hoping, guessing, that they would not want to slow down to deal with it. He had blushed a bit purchasing lube without condoms. Neither of them had been with anyone since well before quarantine and they had both been tested. Armie blushed further in anticipation of experiencing sex for the first time without a condom. He wondered if Timmy ever had. He didn’t ask.

He wants to touch all the places Timmy has been touched before, erase them, make them new, He wants to find all the places that Timmy has never been touched, seek them out, fill them up. He wants to pour Timmy into his body, let him run like a river through all the empty spaces, like a damn has been broken, like he is finally free.

“Do, do you want me to…?” Timmy asks, eyes fixed somewhere below Armie’s, his mouth, maybe his chin.

“I want - if you’re comfortable with it - I want, very much so,” Armie’s words puffs little breaths against Timmy’s curls. “Do you, would you…”

“Yes,” Timmy nods against him. “Yeah I do.”

Timmy slides off Armie’s body and onto his stomach on the mattress. He glances at Armie over his shoulder, curls stuck to his forehead, his voice in pants, “Is this… how do you want me?”

“Yeah, yes,” Armie nods. He pauses a moment, taking in the body before him, the body belonging to this man he has gotten to know, in leaps and tiptoes, both of them grasping each other’s hands and jumping in heedless of the depth or temperature of the water awaiting them, and also wading in, slowly, at times reluctantly. He has gotten to know Timmy so intimately and now to be able to touch him, he feels overwhelmed. The extra senses he is now granted are too much, too much, and also _finally._ “Can I...can I play with you a bit before we…?”

Timmy bites at the pillow under his head and muffles his moan, nodding his head rapidly, his knees inching further apart from each other. Armie pulls the pillow from Timmy’s mouth gently and says firmly, “Let me hear you” and he bends down and lets his tongue trail the length of Timmy’s spine, caressing each bump before moving lower, until he’s lapping at the dimples that hug his tailbone. His journey is to a soundtrack Timmy’s contented humming until his tongue divides the two porcelain globes and he begins to swirl around Timmy’s hole, saliva pooling in his mouth dripping down his chin. As he eats Timmy out, a song of broken words, pleas, and needy noises spill from Timmy’s lips, a map to his pleasure. Armie pulls his ass apart with his hands before sliding his thumbs down and in, pulling his hole open, granting him more access, opening him up until he can fuck into Timmy’s hole with his tongue.

Timmy continues to writhe and pant and sing the rat-a-tat rhythm of pleading syllables and moaned words, one part nonsense words, one part Armie’s name, and one part “more, yes, there, please” until it changes bit by bit until Armie becomes aware of “stop, please please, Armie, you need to, oh god, stop.”

Armie sits back on his heels and runs a hand over his mouth, both to collect the saliva that has dripped down his mouth and neck and the embarrassment that he’s done something to upset Timmy. Timmy flips over on his back, his cock hard, red, and leaking, arched over his stomach, and grabs Armie’s free hand. “Armie - Armie, I just, I was going to, I wasn’t going to last.”

Armie nods, the embarrassment begins to recede but not immediately, not fast enough, and he’s also in that moment taken by the creeping pink wrapping from the back of Timmy’s thighs to the front revealing just the edges of where his stubble has left beard burn and he is all at once aware of how hard he is. Embarrassment wars with lust until “I want to come when you’re inside me,” Timmy finishes, briefly making eye contact with Armie before biting his lip and looking away. Lust wins.

“Yeah, yes, yes, okay,” Armie stutters as he reaches for the lube. As he’s coating himself and Timmy, Timmy pulls him down and kisses him. Armie’s stomach flips. He’s never - he’s used to being pushed away to the bathroom, told to wipe his face, brush his teeth, gargle. He feels something inside him crack, break, and shatter and it feels like freedom.

They make love - Armie is certain this is what it is by process of elimination. They make love, Timmy on his back, one leg on Armie’s shoulder, the other wrapped around his waist, heel digging into the flesh of Armie’s ass, pulling him closer. They make love and Timmy throws an arm over his eyes until Armie pulls it away.

“Let me see your eyes,” he mouths against Timmy’s lips. They spring open and focus on Armie’s and he feels a sliding of something shifting in his body as he begins to feel his movements speed up, his cock swell against Timmy’s walls, and a building of pressure in his balls.

They make love hurtling towards orgasm, Armie’s hips a slapping sound against Timmy’s ass, his fist a slippery wet noise up and down his cock, their mouths pouring a litany of chanted curses and moaning groans.

They lie together after, long after they have caught their breath and the sweat has cooled. They lie together just touching each other, gentle caresses, playful tickles, massaging touches. Not sexual, not just yet, but soon, they will again. But right now, they lie there lazily, feeling time melt around them, no place else to be.

The week feels like that. Like the hazy dreamlike state of time together, despite, after the weekend Armie having to leave for the office while Timmy sets up to work at the desk. These punctures to their time together don’t hurt because they know they will see each other again that evening. They know and with that knowledge comes the delicious edginess that is anticipation. They have evenings of cooking together, of watching TV together, of sleeping together to look forward to. Not at some distant time but in eight hours. After months with no timeline, eight hours feels like a delicious edge to be enjoyed.

And touching. They get to touch. Armie pulling Timmy into his embrace while he sautés the garlic. (“Armie, always double the garlic any recipe calls for. Recipes are pussies about garlic.”) Timmy nuzzling Armie’s chest until he pulls him in close, their fingers meeting between buttery popcorn, while they watch Patrick sing to David at the open mic. Armie tightening his hold on Timmy as he puffs warm short sleep breaths over his skin and his fist grips at his chest hair.

They cannot get enough of touching each other, they drink and drink but it barely quenches their thirst.

And it’s not all sweet rom com montage either.

It is Armie walking through the door in a three piece suit and Timmy sinking to his knees. Armie’s pants barely pulled over his immediately hardened cock and the swell of his ass before he’s buried in Timmy’s mouth, warm and wet, his tongue pressing insistently at that one spot under the head, Timmy’s tie twisted around his fingers, not pulling so much as keeping him there, telling him, yes this is where we belong. Timmy’s pajama pants puddled around his knees as he strokes himself.

It is sitting in the same Zoom frame at Timmy’s Friday night home meeting, pressed shoulder to shoulder. Timmy’s hand resting on Armie’s thigh. Armie trying to read Saoirse’s expression and whether or not she’s looking at him, measuring him. Timmy’s cheeks looking like he swiped blush on them as everyone sings him and a few others “Happy Birthday,” Armie’s voice low and rumbly right in his ear. The blush deepens as Armie later produces two cupcakes he had purchased in honor of his three years of clean time.

It is drinking, drinking, drinking and finally beginning to imagine that at some point images of an oasis won’t be the only thought to be had. It is getting to the edge of that, before realizing they only have one weekend left before Armie returns to LA. Even so, even so a thing continues to bloom in Armie’s chest. A thing that he refuses to name but feels like hope.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so very much for your comments and kudos and messages on tumblr. I am in awe of you, my readers, and humbled. We have returned to our Friday update schedule. I apologize for screwing it up.
> 
> This chapter - I am sorry. It was always going to happen, from the moment I planned this story. It is not the end. It is so far from the end. And I’m sorry.

The couch holds them, supports them, lovingly as they lie tucked together. Timmy is behind Armie, his elegant fingers, the ones Armie had finally admitted to staring at while Timmy had eaten an apple and licked the juices off his fingers during that first meeting are tangled in his chest hair, occasionally running across and tweaking his pebbled nipples. They could lie like this forever, and maybe they have, Timmy buried deep inside Armie circling his hips in small thrusts but being unwilling to pull far enough back to really fuck him. Armie grips Timmy’s forearms with his hands, his cock hard and leaking but ignored, neither of them are in a hurry. They seem to be prolonging their love-making, as if by doing so they can prevent tomorrow, the day that Armie leaves, from coming.

The sounds of the city continue around them, heedless of their desire to stop time. A honking car, the hiss of a bus pulling up to its stop, shouts. Muffled though it is by thick walls and closed windows, it nonetheless provides an erratic soundtrack for them.

Timmy peeks over Armie’s shoulder and sees a burst of color on the coffee table in front of them. Burnt orange and deep reds, a bouquet of calla lilies Armie had presented Timmy with the night before along with his cupcakes since he couldn’t take cake for his three year birthday at an in-person meeting. A burst of color a the room surrounded by violet twilight. The sun sets earlier these days and the growing darkness surrounds the bright room like a hug.

The week had been perfect. Nearly perfect. Almost as close to perfect as a week can get.

But there was the day, mid-week sometime, when Armie had gotten back to the apartment from the office and Timmy had met him bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. Armie, wearing a suit, looking just a little rumpled, his tie loosened, the first button of his collar opened, his overcoat slung over one arm, had caught Timmy around the waist with his free arm and kissed him firmly on the mouth, and Timmy felt safe, safe in that one-armed embrace, safe in the hard, no room for hesitation, kiss. And then Armie had pulled back a little, and looked at Timmy with shining pool-blue eyes that landed on his face like another kiss, like an anchor. And, when, laughing, he had buried his face in Timmy’s curls, and asked what had him so excited, Timmy almost blurted out that he was just happy Armie was home. So excited he almost called this company-owned apartment, belonging to neither of them, home. He felt safe, he felt like he had pulled into the harbor, his odyssey complete, and Armie, the fire that had been kept burning, waiting for him.

He almost called it home, but he caught himself and instead asked if Armie wanted to go out to dinner that night at the restaurant down the street, an Italian place that was a long-time favorite of Timmy’s. A long-time favorite that happened to be in the neighborhood of the company-owned apartment, which had been purchased by Ivory Advertising because of its proximity to the office. The blue pools immediately dulled in luster and shine and Armie ran his hand over his mouth, pulling his lips in as though to physically hold back words. “I thought tonight, that we, well, we had talked about making quiche. With the leftover potatoes from yesterday? You said they would be better for a quiche today.”

He had been right, that had been their plan. But Timmy had seen that the restaurant was open and it had been so long since he had gone to, eaten in, a restaurant. Even longer since he had been on a date. And maybe he had seen _Lady and the Tramp_ too many times as a child.

Armie’s eyes had deepened and dulled even more, unpolished lapis lazuli, as if he was letting himself down in addition to Timmy. “Timmy - “

“Yeah, no, it’s okay. We had said we were going to make quiche, you’re right.” Timmy hurried to cut Armie off and to fill the canyon that had suddenly broken open between them. “I’m just, just going to go for a run before we make dinner. If that’s okay with you? I’ve hardly been outside all week.”

Armie looked him up and down, as if taking the measure of him and then nodded, “Yes, of course. Take as much time as you need.”

And had Timmy run, he ran for blocks and to the park and around the park and the sun had been setting earlier and earlier but he ran until it was ink dark, face mask dangling from his ear in case he had to run nearby anyone. And his muscles were singing with pain and his hair was plastered in single skinny curls against his forehead, and his face was flush with sweat. And he stumbled through the front door and into Armie’s secure hold when he returned. And Armie had kissed his red nose and helped him peel off sweat-stuck clothes and ran a warm shower to help bring his cold and stiff limbs back to the living. And had toweled him off and helped him dress in soft clothes and had sat him down at the table where Armie had made the quiche.

The week had been nearly perfect. But tonight, tonight has been perfect even if it is the edge, the boundary, of their time together. They approach that border together, their footsteps slowing, trying to drag the time out.

Timmy feels the pressure begin to build in his balls, he tries to hold it back, slowing his movements but Armie pushes his hips back, his moans begging Timmy for more, more, more. And Timmy gives in to his own desires, to Armie’s, and pushes forward, deep inside and feels his orgasm wrung out of him, almost painfully, just this side of ecstasy. All around him Armie is clenching and coming, Timmy’s hand, where it had been feathering touches over Armie’s cock and balls, strokes him up and down and through his shuddering orgasm and catches most of his release in his hand, sparing the couch.

They lie there like that, sweaty, entangled, until Timmy softens and pulls out and Armie allows a small whimper to pass his lips at the loss. Timmy kisses the spot right behind Armie’s ear and covertly inhales a scent that’s all salty ocean air and sunshine and Armie. “Let’s shower,” he whispers.

Armie holds him as they shower, gently rubs shampoo (the special tea tree stuff that’s good for his curls) into his hair. Timmy doesn’t think he’s shampooed his hair or soaped his body once in the last week. Armie moves them around so Timmy is under the spray and with his fingers under his chin, tilts his head back. It is at once the most intimate act Timmy has ever experienced and there is nothing remotely sexual about it. It is dripping, like the shower water off their bodies, with care.

They get dressed in soft clothes, t-shirts, and Timmy in his joggers and Armie in a pair of jeans so old and worn, soft and perfectly broken in, hugging him in all the right places, and are splayed out on the very couch that cradled their love-making earlier. It is wondering if it might be audience to a repeat performance, having gotten to know these two men over the course of the past week, when there is a knock at the door.

They glance at each other in surprise and Armie shrugs one shoulder, getting up to see who is at the door. It makes sense that it’s him, he’s the one whom the company loaned the apartment to. He hesitates at the doorway to the living room before closing the doors, and, with it, the sight line from the front door to the room. After all, he is supposed to be staying here alone.

Timmy hears the door creak open, and Armie’s voice, muffled behind his mask, but still low, and rumbly, and echoey, and lovely, says, “Nick?”

“Hey Armie! I was just leaving the office. I, uh, went in for a few hours to work on the changes to the Gless Inc presentation.” Timmy stands between the couch and the coffee table. The couch eyes him warily as he gazes that the bright burst of color, all reds and oranges, on the table in front him.

“Working too hard, Niki, you always do.” Timmy could float away on Armie’s voice.

“Yeah, well, I figured I would swing by before I went home. I, we haven’t spent any time together this week, outside the office, of course.” Timmy begins to pace back and forth in the narrow space.

“True, so true. Uh, sorry about that.” An edge creeps into the low rumbly echoes of Armie’s voice.

“No worries man,” Nick’s voice is easy with friendliness. “I figured, I know it’s your last night here, maybe - would you want to grab drinks?”

“I - uh, I don’t drink anymore, Niki.” Timmy pauses, turns, and stares at the door separating him from the men.

“Oh wow - everything okay with you, man?” Nick’s voice is painted in disbelief.

“Oh yeah, uh, never better.”

“And Liz?” A tinge of worry colors Nick’s friendly ease.

“Fantastic as always. You know her.” Armie’s voice has walked back from the edge.

“Glad to hear it.”

“Thanks for the invite, I really mean it. But I was going to head to bed early tonight, long day of travel tomorrow, especially with all the new restrictions.” The lie tumbles from Armie’s mouth just as low, rumbly, echoey, lovely, and easily as everything else.

“Oh of course. Sorry to miss you this time out, Armie. But good to see you, I’m glad you made it through this okay.”

“Same to you man, same to you.”

“Give Liz my love.”

“Of course. Be well.”

“Be well. Travel safely.”

Timmy hears the door click shut and Armie’s padded footfalls up to the door and then feel a shift in air that opening the door brings as does Armie’s sharp inhale, a sudden sucking in of air. Timmy continues to stare at the door that separated him from the men, the area where Armie now stands.

“I’m sorry Timmy.” The words are pushed out on the exhale, a whooshing sound carries them though and they are flat and they land like stones on the floor between them

Timmy waves his hand, waving away the words, the feelings, the situation. “It’s fine. Did you - do you want to join Mr. - Nick?” He pauses. “You should, text him, tell him you’ll join him.”

Armie looks ashen, it doesn’t look right on him. He is golden - California sun, Greek god, carved from marble and covered in gold leaf - the expression on his face is all wrong and colored in like someone picked up the wrong crayon and was careless. His eyes are drowning deep unpolished lapis lazuli and Timmy feels bile rise in his throat. He takes a step back.

“I’m sorry Timmy. I - I don’t deserve you.” His voice is as gray as his coloring; it has lost its lovely echo, the miraculous parts of it that were never lost over tinny tablet speakers broadcast into headphones that tangled in Timmy’s hair. The parts of it that made Armie feel right there even when he wasn’t, the parts of it that made his voice a thing Timmy felt he could hold, not just hear. But his voice has lost its echo and it sounds like it is slipping through Timmy’s fingers.

“Deserve me? Armie you’re - you’re the best person I know.” Timmy is shaking but his voice doesn’t, he knows this much is true, he feels his faith in Armie firm beneath his feet, like Armie’s embrace when he melted into him the first day they arrived at this apartment. This apartment that had been their home. He is also confused. Does Armie want to go out with Nick but is worried about leaving Timmy for a few hours?

“Timmy, no, you deserve, you deserve someone who is going to stand in the sun with you, who will take you out on dates, who will not push you behind a closed door to hide you.” Armie pushes forward and Timmy has a growing sensation pouring over his shoulders like the water in the shower except it doesn’t feel like being taken care of, it doesn’t feel like caring.

“I told you, I told you. That choice was taken away from me, I would never ask you - “

“I know you wouldn’t and that’s why I, that’s what makes me - I appreciate it so much, Timmy, and I don’t deserve you.”

Timmy takes another step back and his calf collides with the coffee table. The vase topples, teeters on the edge holding perfect balance for a moment.

“You’re - you’re breaking up with me?” His mouth hangs open. His mouth that had been kissed by Armie’s lips, that had stretched around Armie’s cock countless times this week while Armie’s thumb stroked his cheekbone, stroked the outline of his cock through Timmy’s cheek, stroked the corner of his mouth. His mouth cannot believe what his ears are hearing.

“I - it’s for you, it’s for the best for you. I am,” Armie’s hand flies up to his mouth, covering his lips, as though he could grab back the words, swallow them down. “I am breaking up...ending this relationship.”

And there in the ending of it, they finally acknowledge what was between them - it was a relationship they had had. Timmy sinks down onto the couch, which holds him, supports him, lovingly. It would glare at Armie, at his betrayal, if it could. He props his elbows up on his knees and drops his head into his hands. For a moment. He gives himself a moment.

He gives himself a moment before looking up at Armie, who appears shrunken, shrunken in on himself, and as seen through Timmy’s narrowed eyes. “Go.”

“What?” Armie’s voice sounds rough and broken.

“Go meet Nick for drinks.” Timmy says as he feels his lung collapse, pushing the words out with the last breath in his body.

“But - “ Armie’s eyes search his for - for Timmy telling him it’s okay, he understands, for Timmy to fight back and tell Armie no, don’t do it, he does deserve Timmy and, and Timmy is beginning to think, maybe, he deserves Armie, or someone like Armie in his life.

Timmy wants to ask Armie to stay but, “I mean it. Please go, please I can’t…”

“Yes, of course. I’m - Timmy I’m - “ Armie’s voice sounds like a soothing over and sweeping over the stones that landed between them.

“Don’t, Armie, please?” Timmy asks for this one last kindness, a last bit of caring.

Armie nods and heads to the door, grabbing his coat on the way. He pauses at the door handle. “I - I’ll probably be gone at least an hour. Take your, your time packing up your things. No, no need to rush.”

Timmy nods his head, where he’s dropped it back in his hands, silently.

“And Timmy - goodbye.” Armie’s voice breaks when it has no right, for he did the breaking. The breaking of them. Timmy doesn’t look up as Armie opens the door, walks through it, and pulls it shut.

The vase falls, shatters, splinters everywhere. It will be impossible to pick up all the pieces. Water and red and orange spilled, looking like an accident, a crime scene, a murder. Timmy will have to be careful moving around in his bare feet.

And he is as he runs to the door and pulls it open.

“Armie!” He calls, his voice shaking now.

Armie, whose head had been bent over his phone, texting Nick, presumably, turns around and looks at Timmy with a gaze that would sing with hope if he had any right to it.

“You stopped drinking?” Timmy’s voice sounds broken to his own ears and he hates it.

“Yeah, after you - “ Armie begins, his voice still sounds like a flat gray.

“I told you I didn’t want you to change for me.” His heart, a soft and untamed thing, hurts.

“Well I did. Just not - just not enough.” And he turns and walks away. His shoulders hunched like he’s carrying the weight of the couch and Timmy’s heartbreak and his own.

Timmy returns to the apartment. The apartment that had been their home for eight beautiful days. He does not cry. His face feels cold, stoney. And that should be more concerning than tears. He packs quickly - he hadn’t brought much, some button down shirts and ties for work, joggers, jeans and a t-shirt, a sweater. He’s kept his stuff neat and tidy, aware of the age difference, aware that Armie lives in a bright and airy house that is seemingly always filled with light and the crash of waves on the beach outside and always clean and picture perfect. He’s not wanted to come across as the messy kid he feels he is. He knows he is.

He packs quickly, his backpack sitting on a chair in the bedroom, stuffs his things in without bothering to fold them. Armie had said he could stay as long as he needs but his face is cold, stoney, and his lungs feel like they too are turning to stone and he can’t breathe. He glances at Armie’s hoodie, from UCLA, worn from the years of use since he graduated, flung over the back of the chair. He picks it up and presses it to his nose and it smells like waves crashing and sunshine and bright open rooms and Armie. He shoves it into his backpack without thinking. He packs quickly, he didn’t bring much and they ate all the bagels.

He makes his way back into the living room and slowly turns in a circle, making sure he didn’t forget anything before walking to the door, opening it, and walking through. He holds his vogmask up to his face and loops the elastic over his ears. He leaves the vase, shattered, on the floor, surrounded by flowers, drowning in a puddle of water. They would have wilted soon.

Out on the street the soundtrack of the city intensifies. He stands on the sidewalk for a moment, getting his bearings in the autumn night. He feels a tug south and east. He knows a guy or he did. He feels a tug and it wouldn’t be difficult. He feels a tug and sticks his hand in his pocket and pulls out his phone.

“Timmy,” a familiar and soft lilt answers.

“I - I need a meeting.” He can immediately hear the clicking of her nails on the keyboard in the background.

“Okay, there’s a Zoom meeting in an hour. I can text you the meeting number and password. Can you make that?” Her voice is calm with an edge to it. An edge that sounds like it’s a stale cracker, quickly crumbling.

“Yes, I can get home in time.” Timmy swallows past everything that just unfolded upstairs, tries to keep his breathing steady, reminds himself that he cannot suffocate in his face mask. He cannot suffocate from emotions.

“Are you,” Saoirse pauses, Timmy can tell she knows she needs to ask this question and wants to avoid the answer. It’s the first time she’s paused like this in their relationship and he feels like he’s let her down, the pause is disappointment. Even though it’s her job, it’s her job to ask these questions and keep herself separate from the answers. “Are you safe?”

“Yeah Sersh, I am,” he tries to escape the disappointment, it feels like weighty punishment, suffocating him further. “I will be.”

“Okay,” she breathes.

“Can you?” He inhales deeply feeling the cloth mask in his mouth and nostrils. “Can you stay on the phone?”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggle with the words to express my feelings (in the context of a brief author’s note) about the current events of the past week. The very least I can do is state unequivocally that Black Lives Matter. If you want to know more about what I’m doing please check out my tumblr. Also, if you want to talk about anything ever, but right now about how recent events have brought to the fore, once again, the long history of white supremacy (especially in the US as that is where I live), please do not hesitate to reach out. I am white and I believe these are important conversations for white people to have with each other and without burdening further our Black acquaintances, friends, and family. 
> 
> **MINI SPOILER** There is no appropriate segue but I also want to speak to this chapter. To be honest, I have been more anxious about posting this one than the last. Not because anything bad happens. In fact, the opposite. I don’t want you reading this waiting for some other shoe to drop. That said, here is the mini spoiler and I’ll speak more about it in the end notes for those interested: Timmy develops a friendship with Ansel. It is a tender friendship but they will not hook up or date or be anything other than friends to each other.

Timmy makes his way home with Saoirse talking to him about a date last night, her grocery shopping earlier in the week, and a visit with her parents last weekend, all in a soft voice. Her voice is soft but solid, it tells Timmy she is there, not going anywhere, until he is sat at home, his laptop turned on, logged into the meeting. He walks against the wind, through the tunnels created by the city’s skyscrapers. The biting whipping cold brings tears to his eyes, dripping and soaking his vogmask. He hates New York in winter. The damp fabric, the heat of his breath trapped under the mask, are thick against him and he’s choking, but he pushes himself along, shouldering his way through the cold.

If he was asked later, he wouldn’t remember entering his building, the elevator ride to his floor, or opening his apartment door. He remembers the first breath of air after ripping off his vogmask, at once liberating and unsatisfying, as he gulps at the air stale, like there’s a fine layer of dust over it, for having sat still for a week.

He stumbles over to his table and shrugs off his jacket and backpack in one movement, letting them both fall to the floor, the jacket making a more graceful descent than the thud of the backpack. He grabs his laptop, heedless of the clothes that tumble out as well, also silently falling to the floor. He keeps his phone wedged between his ear and his shoulder while he sets up and logs in.

“Okay, okay Sersh, I’m home, I’m in the meeting.” He doesn’t recognize his voice, flat after singing from atop mountains, shouting into canyons, the past week.

“Good,” she responds simply, “Be in touch later.”

“Sersh, I’m home now, I don’t need - “

“Be in touch later,” her voice remains soft but the firm grounded piece has taken an edge, a shovel strong enough to break ground.

“Yeah, yeah, I will.” Timmy ends the call and tries to turn his attention to the meeting.

The sounds of the meeting break and crumble into white noise. Even the ever recognizable recitations at the start, fall like pieces of dust motes in the air around him. He stares at the screen but focuses more on the pinprick sensations in his eyes as he blinks rapidly trying to push them away. He realizes his brain has been continuing his heart beating, his lungs drawing in breaths and expelling them, and he feels betrayed. He stares at the screen but focuses more on how he seems to just be existing. Existing without an explicit decision to do so. Existing is okay, he reminds himself. He can exist for now.

As the meeting wraps up, Timmy hears a knocking at his door. He moves for the first time in ninety minutes, twisting his head back and forth, standing and shaking out his legs, trying to regain circulation in them. His heart, which has inexplicably continued to beat, speeds up just a bit as he peers through the peephole, hand hovering over his back up face mask. He lets out a long breath when he sees Saoirse standing on the other side and opens the door.

She pulls her mask off and announces, “I’ve brought pizza, extra cheese, and orange soda. And I don’t want to hear a word about it.”

“Sersh, I don’t need - “

“And I don’t want to hear a word about it. Pizza and soda. Grab some plates.”

They sit at the table, the laptop closed and pushed to the side, with pizza on their plates and the open bottle of orange soda between them as if through some unspoken agreement that to pour it into glasses would be far too incongruous. Timmy stares at the pizza on his plate and Saoirse stares at him.

He and Armie had made pizzas one night. He had gotten to see Armie’s hands knead the dough, hands firm on the rolling pin, pushing it out in every direction. Had those same hands on him caked with flour and dough, because it had seemed like there was a magnetic pull between their hands and their bodies. Hands sticky with flour and dough that had quickly pulled down his pants, leaving visible fingerprints to mirror those left, burned but invisible, on Timmy’s skin, and held him by the hips while Armie sunk to his knees, murmuring against Timmy’s skin about plans to have a pizza oven built at the house on the beach, plans for them to eat pizza to the soundtrack of waves crashing and the air thick and salty. Plans Timmy had assumed included him.

The hot pinpricks are back, like microscopic needles driving themselves into his eyes, and no amount of blinking pushes them away or holds back the hot wetness dripping down his face. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Saoirse’s hand clutches his shoulder, tight and present. Tears flow from his eyes like breathing.

“You were right,” he admits. “I got hurt.”

Her heavy sigh drapes around him like a blanket, warm and caring, “I didn’t want to be.”

“I know.”

“Eat your pizza.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I know. Eat it anyway.”

He chews around the gooey cardboard and sawdust in his mouth, washing it down with the sticky sweet bubbles he also doesn’t taste. He would have to admit that he feels a bit better afterward if Saoirse asked, but is grateful she doesn’t and leaves well enough alone.

She pushes him towards the bathroom to wash up while she cleans their place settings. Timmy contemplates taking a shower until he remembers he already took one today, with Armie. He can’t think about the time that will come, perhaps tomorrow, but definitely by Monday when he will have to take another, when Armie’s hands won’t be the last to have washed his hair, soaped his body, held him under the spray to rinse off. He splashes some water on his face, diluting the tears that seem to pour out in endless supply, and brushes his teeth before he and Saoirse crawl into his bed together and turn on _Parks and Rec._ At some point his phone chimes with a new text message and he scrambles for it. He holds it in his hands, face down, and looks at Saoirse who manages to raise one eyebrow and one shoulder simultaneously, a move Timmy will have to ask her to teach him later. He turns it over and sees it’s from Ansel. He glances at Saoirse and shakes his head before reading.

_Hey, I just wanted to ask if you’re okay? You seemed upset in the meeting tonight. _

He drops the phone someplace in the bed and lies down again, half-watching the episode and half-willing his body to sleep, to take him under, to take him away from all this feeling. The word feeling echoes in his head like he’s spit it out, something distasteful.

He gets through the night. Saoirse leaves in the early morning, pressing a kiss onto his forehead, and telling him he just needs to get through today.

He gets through the day, measured out in twenty-two minute segments, as he binges the series. He gets through the evening, twenty-two minute segments only varied by an hour during which he sits, surrounded by the white noise of a meeting once again.

He doesn’t answer Ansel’s text.

He is not waiting for another text from another person but has checked more than once to make sure the volume on his phone is turned all the way up.

He wonders if the tears will ever stop. He’s not crying but they keep filling up his eyes and pouring over, trailing down his cheeks. He wonders if he will stop breathing.

Monday comes and he can’t avoid showering any longer. His tears get the message too, the water from the showerhead upstages them and they retreat. It takes very little for them during the day to pop back up, fill his eyes, threaten to spill over, but they don’t. It takes very little, picking up his tie from the floor where it fell on Saturday, smoothing it out, and putting it on and remembering Armie’s fingers woven through it, pulling Timmy close. It takes very little, making coffee and slicing an apple while it brews. It takes very little, realizing he is waiting for a morning text that never arrives. Realizing that the parts of them that were the result of being apart will be what is most familiar, what he misses the most. It takes very little for the tears to threaten their return, to tiptoe up to the border, but they don’t cross over.

He doesn’t answer Ansel’s text.

He manages to get through the work day, half tuned into the emails he’s typing and half someplace else. Someplace that sounds like static and that is gray and numb and not present.

He finds a Monday meeting to attend. It’s been some time since he attended daily meetings but he figures he’s got shit all else to do and at the very least meetings kill an hour to an hour and half of an evening and night that used to be taken up with cooking with Armie, watching TV with Armie, and masturbating with Armie. With Armie’s deep voice telling him what to do, telling him how beautiful he is, making him believe it for a moment. With Armie’s deep voice cracking with his own arousal, making Timmy feel like he did that, he was responsible for that. Making him believe that a man like Armie could ever… and there are tears again, peeking out, wondering if they’re being called to action. Timmy blinks them back and attends meetings at night, loses himself in rewatching his favorite shows, carefully sidestepping the shows he watched with Armie, without saying it to himself.

On Tuesday night, he sees Ansel in a meeting and is reminded of the unanswered text. The text that remained unanswered because every time Timmy had seen his phone laying there, it was a reminder of a time when it was glued to his hand, when it was a cord that connected him to someone else, to another life.

He picks it up and types a response while the speaker is talking. He’s not really paying attention anyway, it remains white noise, broken and falling around him.

_ Not doing great, but hanging in there. Thanks for checking in. I hope you’re well. _

The response comes after the meeting.

_ Sorry to hear that. I heard you mention you run. If you ever want to go on a run together, let me know. _

Timmy vaguely remembers mentioning something about running when he was a speaker at a meeting a few weeks back, it feels like something from a dream - either this life isn’t or that one wasn’t real. He doesn’t understand how they could both exist in the same reality, in the same universe. How he could be the same person whom Armie had looked at as though he held the entirety of the universe, whichever one was the one that contained Armie, and also the person whom Armie had broken up with (I am breaking up...ending this relationship is on repeat in Timmy’s mind, like a jingle selling him heartbreak at the low low cost of his sense of self-worth).

Except he can. Except he can believe it. Because he always expected it to happen. Just maybe not right then at that moment when they had so few moments left of their holiday.

Wednesday arrives with its weekly meeting with the CFO. If Timmy takes some extra time that morning with his curls, if he puts on the same tie that Armie had said brought out the greens in his eyes, before he quickly pulled it off and peppered Timmy’s neck with biting kisses, if he does all that, no one else needs to know.

He logs in for the meeting and Armie is going through motions to get it started. Timmy doesn’t allow his eyes to focus, refuses to see Armie, to be able to examine his face for a sign. A sign that he too is mourning. A sign that he isn’t sleeping. A sign that he is missing something he had come to rely on, had let himself rely on.

Refuses to allow his eyes to focus because if he looks for a sign and sees nothing, sees Armie as charming and handsome as ever, the thought alone in this brings those tears back to the edges of his eyes, threatening once again to cross that border onto his face.

Better to let his eyes remain unfocused, tears in their place.

“Mr. Hammer?” Timmy unmutes himself before Armie can start speaking and keeps his eyes trained on the box containing his own face. “Could I - when we meet individually, could I go first? I have another meeting to attend for Mr. Delli Santi.”

He doesn’t but he knows Armie well enough to know he won’t check up on him. He at least knows Armie that well.

“Sure, of course.” Timmy wishes he could unfocus his hearing the way he can his vision, blur the sound of Armie’s deep echoey voice. Wishes he could stop himself from wondering about the edges of it, what are those borders holding back?

Timmy gets out of the meeting early and he and Ansel go for a run. Timmy’s lungs burning, his heart pumping for a reason beyond just maintaining life, his muscles screaming in a way that drowns his thoughts out and finally gives him a reprieve.

Anselt doesn’t ask any questions about what Timmy has been going through. He chats about various half and full marathons he’s run, encourages Timmy to train for something (at least a half, it’s the perfect distance), talks about tempo runs, hill repeats, and race pace. And Timmy enjoys the opportunity to be someone else for a few hours. He falls into the fantasy world with Ansel and imagines training for something, something entirely in his control, something that would be his first real goal since getting clean, since getting this job. He imagines for a moment what it would feel like to have a finish line to cross, the weight of a medal around his neck. He collects chips for his clean time but it’s never finished. He collects a chip and in the next moment he still has to remain clean. He understands why people often relapse shortly after achieving a year’s clean time. He imagines having a goal that would be finished with the crossing of a finish line and something to hold that celebrated something other than time passing. And he doesn’t think about Armie.

That night he unfollows Armie and Liz on social media.

He leaves Wednesday meetings early and goes running with Ansel. They start running on Saturdays too.

At some point he realizes he’s no longer counting the days, but, rather the weeks. He remembers having that realization just after getting his ninety-day chip, that he was no longer focused on seeing one day flip to the next on his app but waiting for the weeks to accumulate. It happens more quickly with his heart. And soon the weeks are organized into a training schedule populated with those hill repeats, tempo runs, and long slow distance runs.

Saoirse approves of this new hobby, or, rather Timmy’s increased investment in something he had done to keep himself busy. She likes that he has a goal, a friend to do it with. She approves even if that’s not her job. Even if she insists on calling it jogging.

He still sleeps with Armie’s hoodie every night.

He puts it away when Ansel comes over on a Saturday night to have a pasta dinner before Timmy’s longest run yet. He puts it away to avoid the questions it might raise, to avoid Ansel getting to know yet another one of Timmy’s failures, to avoid Ansel leaning against it if they watch a movie after dinner and getting his scent all over it.

Timmy believes he can still smell salt water and Armie if he breathes in deeply enough.

They stuff themselves full of pasta and talk about work a little, gossip from meetings a little more, and mostly talk about fueling strategies and Timmy’s anxiety at finally hitting the ten mile mark tomorrow. They move to Timmy’s bed to watch a movie, one that Ansel swears will make Timmy feel capable of anything, and it does, as it follows all types of runners training for the Chicago Marathon. It does until Timmy is gently shaken awake by Ansel, Timmy’s head on his shoulder, Ansel’s hand warm on Timmy’s shoulder. For that liminal moment between sleep and wake, Timmy basks in the feeling of touching someone else. After quarantine, the week he had with Armie was hardly enough, especially followed by weeks without, without touch, without that connection to another life.

Ansel says good-bye with a warm hug and they meet early the next morning and Timmy crushes those ten miles.

He doesn’t delete the text messages with Armie. He doesn’t go back and read them. Not anymore at least. But he doesn’t delete them.

On a Thursday in May Timmy is packing his bag. He and Ansel leave the next day to drive a couple of hours out of the city for their race on Sunday. He hasn’t had a vacation since. He doesn’t remember when. He traded his European vacation for rehab and then he was too new at Ivory Advertising to ask for time off and then quarantine happened and there was no travel anyway. He deserves the time off. A Friday off.

Timmy is packing his bag when his cell phone chimes with a new text message.

He hadn’t deleted the text messages with Armie and now there’s a new one.

_ I don’t know if half-birthdays are an NA thing. If they are, happy 3.5 years. _

Timmy holds his phone like it might explode, his heart is beating like it got the same warning. He stares at the message, his eyes focused like he hasn’t allowed them to be in a single Wednesday meeting yet.

His fingers move without him recalling ever giving them permission.

_ Thank you. _

A moment later, his traitorous fingers move again.

_ I miss you. _

No sooner does the swooping sound indicate that the message has been sent but a FaceTime call is ringing through.

“Armie,” he breathes out.

“Timmy,” Armie breathes in.

“I - I, shit,” Those burning hot tears that had stopped threatening him without his ever noticing their absence are suddenly back.

“It’s so good to - fuck I’ve missed your face,” Armie’s voice is still deep across a tinny phone speaker.

“You see me every week,” Timmy feels his mouth turn down into a pout.

“Timmy,” Armie’s face looks like someone tightened all the skin on it, painfully. “I don’t, I can’t - I try not to look at you.”

“Fuck, yeah, me too,” Timmy releases in a breath.

Armie’s laugh sounds hollow, not with the lovely echo his voice usually has, but like it's been scooped out from the thing that made it alive. “God you’re more beautiful than you were before, how is that even possible?”

“I am?” Timmy looks up at the phone through a curtain of eyelashes.

“Yes, how do you - do you not realize it? How gorgeous you are?” Timmy’s laughter skitters arounds the room. “What you, what you do to me?”

Those traitorous fingers squeeze around Timmy’s cock, already thickening in his pants. Another traitor. He had thought, through all the training, he was getting his body to fall in line, to listen to him. He had been wrong.

“What do I do to you?” Timmy whispers.

“Don’t you know by now?”

“Not anymore.”

“Timmy,” Armie’s voice breaks at the edges. “I’ve never - never stopped -”

“Me neither,” Timmy’s words come out like a whoosh of air through a suddenly opened door.

“I wish I was there, god, I wish I could touch you,” Armie whispers.

And another door opens. One that reveals a packed weekend bag, running shoes sitting on top, a mess of extra safety pins and goo sitting beside it.

“Armie, I - I can’t.” Timmy blinks back the rapidly approaching tears.

“What do you mean?” Armie’s eyebrows draw up and his forehead wrinkles.

“I can’t do this. With you. I wish - I can’t.”

“But you said - “

“I said I would never ask you to change, never push you to do something, _anything_, you weren’t ready for. And I’m not, I’m not. I wish, fuck!” He wipes at his traitorous eyes. “I just I can’t. I can’t go back to what we had because I can’t go back to what we didn’t have.”

“You miss me.”

“I do, I do so much, Armie, please believe me. But still, I can’t. I’m - I’m - “

“Don’t, you don’t need to apologize. Good-bye Timmy.”

Timmy just nods and hits the red button ending the call.

The next day he and Ansel drive a couple of hours upstate, listening to a playlist Ansel created of the music that was popular when they were in high school. They spend Saturday picking up their race bibs and walking around the town’s stores, mostly populated by local crafts and antiques. Timmy buys a painting of a beach scene. Maybe it’s time to hang something on his walls.

On Sunday they get up with the sun and take a bus to the starting line. Timmy feels his stomach heavy and knotted within him and Ansel catches his eye and pulls him into a hug. Little by little he feels himself relax in Ansel’s arms and lets the excitement take over from the dread.

When Timmy crosses the finish line, someone places the medal around his neck. He doesn’t feel the weight of it. He takes a selfie to send to Saoirse. A small part of him wants to send it to Armie too, but that small part doesn’t feel like numbness anymore. Despite having run over thirteen miles, he feels like he could fly. It feels like pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be Armie’s POV. See below for my ramblings about friendship. 
> 
> Hi. I hope removing the sword of something happening between Ansel and Timmy from dangling over this chapter was helpful. I really wanted to portray the beauty of queer friendship here. My success at the beauty bit is debatable. I have witnessed many queer people develop close and special friendships with people they used to date and I was hoping to capture that here. As I was imagining this chapter I realized that as their friendship unfolded, readers may think I was leading up to something happening between them. I considered giving Ansel a boyfriend but I didn’t want some one-dimensional OC in this story just to avoid some potential anxiety. I considered having Timmy and Ansel have a conversation about their relationship but that seemed OOC. I wanted their friendship to develop naturally and without the assumption that just because they used to be together sexually (were they dating in high school? I don’t have a firm opinion on that) that their relationship must progress there again. All this to say, I wanted to write the friendship as I see queer friendships between exes (not to say this doesn’t happen with heterosexual exes but I don’t have that experience) and trust my readers to trust me. I hope I’ve proven worthy of such trust.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Armie’s perspective and a blink and you’ll miss it reference to Ani DiFranco because I am An Old Queer(™) and an even faster reference to Josh Ritter because music. Also the NY State Health Department officially recommends[ Zoom orgies ](https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/davidmack/new-york-coronavirus-sex-guide-advice-quarantine) to keep oneself safe during the continued COVID-19 epidemic. 
> 
> I continue to be absolutely humbled by your response to this fic. Thank you seems paltry but it is what I have. Thank you.

**November 2020**

Armie has no right to it. He had no right to that feeling blooming in his chest, that thing that might have been called hope. He has no right to this burning thing inside him, wanting Timmy to run after him as he leaves the apartment. When the door opens and Timmy calls out to him, he has a moment. He lives an entire lifetime in that moment. A life in which he had been brave.

In which he had leaned into Nick, when he put his arm around him, and let his sturdiness hold them both up.

In which he had gone to the house party with the guy from Art History class, gone and let others think they were together. And maybe they were. Or would have been.

In which he had gone home with the man from the bar, woken up next to him, lazy morning sun streaking their bodies and sheets.

In which he had moved in with the graduate student. They would have had to decide what to do with the books they each owned a copy of, and Armie would have felt relief when they broke up that they had decided to keep all the duplicates.

In which he had come out when the guy from Tinder asked him to. That he had faced what his family might think of him. That he had risked their withdrawal from his life. What love and affection they provided was perhaps insignificant compared with what he might have gained.

And yet it is the uncertainty that pushed him back each time. Each time he felt like he walked to the edge of the cliff but dared not look over. There may have been a steep drop or a gently sloping hill. He would never know.

Had he dared he might have been living a different life.

A life in which he had taken Timmy out on a date to his favorite restaurant. A life in which he had invited Nick into the apartment and said something like “You already know Timmy.”

But that is not the life he is leading.

He pulls on a face and meets Nick for drinks, club soda in his case. He keeps a grin pasted on and listens to the details of what Nick is telling him so he can ask good questions. The types of questions where the answers require that Nick take out his phone to show Armie photos. Of his new boyfriend, of the property on Fire Island they’re thinking of buying (“I know it’s early Armie, but I really think he could be the one, you know?”). The kinds of questions that pass time and allow Armie to avoid being asked any in return. Where Nick will go home and his new boyfriend will ask “How is Armie doing?” and only then Nick will realize he talked about himself the entire time.

He returns to the apartment later and can still smell Timmy’s shampoo in the air and blinks back against the sense memory. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t have a right to it. He’s the one who did the breaking and, anyway, somewhere in the recesses of his memory echoes a voice that sounds like his mother, if not maternal, about real men and crying.

Timmy hadn’t had many belongings, and he had kept them neatly put away, as though he had been afraid of leaving a trace, when that’s all Armie wanted. Armie wanted the mess of Timmy all over his things, as though they could soak him up so when he packed at the end of the week, he could take something of him back.

He knew this couldn’t last. He had no right to it. He doesn’t cry.

Saturday blurs into Sunday like a messy charcoal line, there is no crisp division by sleep to separate the days. At some point Armie is packing and realizes Timmy has taken his hoodie. A last tendril of hope uncoils itself.

He returns to the bright house filled with thick salty air and Liz’s sunshine smile. He returns to the house where he spent all those months of quarantine and now he feels trapped. During quarantine, time had been this muddy oatmeal of a thing and now it has sharp cutting edges. During quarantine emotions had been bright and multifaceted and now are one large blob without distinct boundaries, all bleeding into each other and into his life.

He doesn’t cry.

He mopes when loading the dishwasher and sees Liz trying not to look at him with concern in her eyes. The same concern that she had with the guy from Art History class, and the guy from the bar, and the graduate student, and the guy from Tinder. Except this time he doesn’t talk to her. This time it’s not a matter of telling her lightly what happened. He’s worried that if he lets the words out, they will pour like an ocean, infinite, drowning him. He’s worried she will doubt that she’s been helping him all this time. He’s worried she will begin to think she’s been hurting him by letting him use their friendship to avoid questions, to welcome assumptions. He’s worried she would be right.

He puts on the same face he’s put on his entire life and makes it to Wednesday. His gut fills with a tight coil shooting off electric sparks. He wants to avoid the meeting, call in sick, send in a replacement, and he cannot wait to see Timmy. And in the meeting Timmy is the sun, filling the cracks in Armie, bringing light once more, and he cannot look directly at him.

He’s terrified to look and see Timmy’s eyes are as bloodshot as his are. He’s terrified to look and see that they are not. He doesn’t want Timmy to feel pain and yet, where there is pain there is hope. And he is grateful when Timmy says he has to leave early. He sees Timmy bite the corner of his mouth and he knows he’s lying and he is grateful for it.

He notices that Timmy has stopped following him and Liz on social media. He can’t bring himself to do the same.

Armie prefers quiet celebrations against crashing waves and winter sunsets for Christmas and New Years. He and Liz exchange gag gifts at Christmas trying to get the other to crack into laughter first and Liz often travels with her friends for New Years. Armie declines the invitations to the lavish Hammer family celebrations on both their behalfs. His friendship with Liz may have long served as his ticket to avoid prying questions, but he still prefers to not have to put on the suit and tie and mask required.

He fulfills his family obligation by inviting his father and step-mother to their home at some point between the two holidays. This year Armie and Liz have invited them over on a Sunday, still the weekend but with the easy excuse of Monday morning to put a boundary on their time together, preventing their time together from spreading out infinitely.

There is a tickling in his thoughts that pushes through as Armie is cooking (he anticipates them, he anticipates the questions, a “You cooked this, Armie?” with eyebrows raised from his step-mother and a “I guess everyone picked up odd hobbies during the quarantine,” from his father) that it is Timmy’s birthday. His birthday as in the actual day of his birth, rather than his sobriety birthday.

They had spent Armie’s birthday together, over FaceTime, and Timmy had planned with Liz to get Armie’s favorite barbeque delivered and they had both sung “Happy Birthday” to him, Timmy’s grin stretched wide across his face, and the candles from the cake reflected in Liz’s eyes. And later, with the new dildo that had also been delivered, this without any help from Liz, Timmy had whispered directions, licking his lips, his eyes dark and intent. He had whispered how wet Armie should get his fingers, get the dildo, how he should circle his hole before pushing in with two fingers right at the start “because I know you like that burn, Armie, I know you’re going to want to feel it tomorrow” until he was fucking himself on the dildo, pushing it up against that spot again and again and again until he felt like he was going to shatter and he came so hard it was almost painful. And Timmy had whispered again, as Armie was catching his breath, arm flung over his face, Timmy had whispered, bashful now, that the dildo had been the one that most closely resembled his own cock, of those available online. And Armie had let his head drop to the side so he could see Timmy, his cheeks clearly pink despite the low light, and his cock had twitched with the promise of what was still to come.

He realizes it’s Timmy’s birthday and spends dinner wondering what they would have done if they were still together. If he had lived this other life where he could have had Timmy. Would he be introducing him to his father and step-mother? Would he be relieved of any responsibility for seeing his family and have flown back to NYC? Or would he have flown Timmy out to the beach, gray and cold in December, waves crashing violently at the shore, beautiful in its brutality. What would they have done if they had still been together? Because they were together. Once.

Sometime into the new year, he cooks Liz dinner and pours her a glass of wine. He takes her hands in his and says, his voice finding its way out around a mouthful of gravel, “Thank you, thank you so much for all the years. But, this is hurting me now, I’m hurting me. And I need to figure a way out.”

She knows, of course, she already knows. They cry together for what was and they cry for what will be. They make plans to remain best friends. They make plans to sell the house with its soundtrack of waves breaking against sandy shores. Armie offers to give Liz all the proceeds from the sale and she laughs. “You always said that you wanted to make sure I never had to worry if my photography was financially successful.” She cups his cheek in her hand, it is warm and dry, “But it was and I’ve never had to spend a dime of it, thanks to you. I imagine I’ll travel a while before deciding where to plant myself…”

They wrap themselves in blankets and sit out by the fire pit and listen to the waves and the memories they share.

He finally cries over folding his socks. Over stretching them out. He cries over the memories of a sock drawer that had more colors than a sunset ever dreamed of.

The date is burned like a brand in his mind and he treasures it. A piece of him that belonged to someone once. He’s kept their texts, but can’t bring himself to reread them. Eyes unfocused, he opens up the conversation and types.

_I don’t know if half-birthdays are an NA thing. If they are, happy 3.5 years._

He doesn’t expect a response. He wanted that wish out there in the universe with no expectation of anything in return. His heart will always hold Timmy in it, it has no bones, it can bend and stretch to fit him. He doesn’t need a response, he always has Timmy with him, pushing him, heart forward into his life.

_Thank you._ His phone tells him. And again. _I miss you._

He didn’t expect a response. He didn’t need a response. But now that he is holding it in his hands, his thumb cannot help but brush across the screen of his phone.

He does not expect Timmy to pick up. He does not need Timmy to pick up. But.

“Armie,” Timmy breathes out.

“Timmy,” Armie breathes in, like an oxygen starved climber finally reaching lower altitude. Timmy is saying something but it is waves crashing in his ear, loud white noise and he admits, “It’s so good to - fuck I’ve missed your face.”

“You see me every week.” Armie’s fingertips tickle with a desire to reach out and trace the shape of Timmy’s mouth.

“Timmy,” Armie feels a pinching sensation dance over his skin and through his mind. “I don’t, I can’t - I try not to look at you.”

“Fuck, yeah, me too,” Timmy says breathlessly.

Armie huffs a laugh, laughing at his own weakness that separated them, kept them apart.“God you’re more beautiful than you were before, how is that even possible?”

“I am?” Timmy looks up at the phone through a curtain of eyelashes.

“Yes, how do you - do you not realize it? How gorgeous you are?” Timmy’s laughter lights up the room in ways the May sunshine has been unable, reaching into the far corners and into Armie’s heart. “What you, what you do to me?”

“What do I do to you?” Timmy whispers. Armie’s wishful eyes imagine that Timmy’s hand is touching himself. Armie longs to be Timmy’s hand.

“Don’t you know by now?”

“Not anymore.”

They trip over half-confessions, like stumbling over the long shadows of dust bunnies in a room that has been left locked for far too long. They are making their halting way until Timmy finds his balance, firm footing, in the dark abandoned room.

“I said I would never ask you to change, never push you to do something, _anything,_ you weren’t ready for. And I’m not, I’m not. I wish, fuck!” Timmy wipes his hand over his eyes. “I just _I_ can’t. I can’t go back to what we had because I can’t go back to what we didn’t have.”

Armie says good-bye but what he means is “I am proud of you, even if I have no right to it.” And “You have cracked open my heart.” Also, “It is through those cracks that I can finally see the light guiding me forward.” Further and finally, “You told me once that you loved me and I never got to tell you, but please know. Please.”

He adds a postscript, and borrows someone else’s words. He knows numbers and budgets, he leaves the magic to the poets and dreamers “i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart).”*

He unfollows Timmy on social media.

Mid-June draws close and Armie and Liz eat dinner among moving boxes, half full, they’re in no rush, with Armie’s father and step-mother. Armie supposes the news of their split (what an inadequate word) isn’t the best Father’s Day gift but he also gifts his father cigars and brandy, hoping they will steal the spotlight from disappointment. Armie’s step-mother immediately wraps Liz in a hug, her arms like unspoken accusations and assumptions of his guilt. After dinner, his father excuses himself to the patio for a smoke and a drink, the gifts that were well-received. Liz, still smoothing the way for Armie with his family, guides him with her eyes to follow his father.

His father looks out to the sea as he puffs on his cigar, “Just before we divorced, your mom started reading this, uh, Christian mommy blogger. A name like three last names, Glennon someone, you know her?”

Armie shakes his head no.

“Figures. She got me reading her too, I don’t know. It was sweet stuff. Wrote a couple of books, that Glennon. Your step-mother likes her too, so we have the books lying around. Couldn’t help but read them. Nice woman, pretty too.”

Armie has no choice but to follow his father on this journey, led by some blogger with a book deal.

“She got divorced and then remarried. Married that soccer star - you know the one?”

“Dad, that’s a Spice Girl, David Beckham’s not married to - “

His father turns around and fixes him with a steady stare, one eyebrow raised. “No son, Abby Wambach. She wrote that her parents were worried at first but now, now they’re supportive. Good career, bestselling author, don’t see why they wouldn’t be.” He stubs out the butt of his cigar and swallows the last of his drink and walks inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *  
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in  
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere  
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done  
by only me is your doing,my darling)  
i fear  
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want  
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)  
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant  
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
> 
> here is the deepest secret nobody knows  
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud  
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows  
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)  
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
> 
> i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)  
-e.e. cummings 
> 
> The NYT Bestseller (and Christian mom) referenced is Glennon Doyle. Before she divorced her husband, her name was Glennon Doyle Melton which… is a lot. She and Abby are many things, including sober, a lovely coincidence for this fic.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Thank you to each of you for every comment, tumblr message, and kudos. You have no idea how much of a smile they put on my face - I walk around like a grinning fool. 
> 
> I know the past few chapters have been filled with some heartache and some hope. I hope this chapter brings lots of hope and some well-deserved happiness. 
> 
> Check out this incredible cover art by chalamazed / stmonkeys - I'm so honored she gifted me with this.

**December 2021**

He looks at Nick’s eyes, dark brown like melted chocolate. 

The email had come in July. 

July 12, 2021

Mr. Hammer,

I hope this email finds you well. I am Mr. Delli Santi’s new assistant. You may have heard that Tim left Ivory Advertising. Mr. Delli Santi has asked that I obtain last quarter’s ROI for Harold Manufacturing from you.

Thank you in advance.

Best regards,

Florence Pugh  
Assistant to Senior Vice President for Marketing  
Ivory Advertising

July 13, 2021

Florence,

It is nice to “meet” you. I hope you are adjusting well to Ivory. 

You may call me Armie. However, going forward please contact my assistant Ashton at aramsey@ivory.com

Armand Hammer  
Chief Financial Officer  
Ivory Advertising

Armie had missed seeing Timmy, even if his attendance remained brief, during his Wednesday meetings with the assistants, when those meetings were cancelled and the assistants returned to the office once more. He had enjoyed seeing his name appear in his email inbox and had avoided telling Timmy about his new assistant just to get to continue to feel that warmth that spread through his chest whenever he saw his name. Timmy’s emails had not strayed from their previous formality, although he had never returned to calling Armie “Mr. Hammer,” at least. At least Armie had Timmy’s name in his email and he could hear his name the way Timmy said it when they were together, floating out of his mouth on the breath of a laugh. Because they were together, once. 

Armie mourned the loss of seeing Timmy’s name in his email inbox.

He mourned the loss of being able to find out what happened next in Timmy’s life. 

Was he happy? Was the move to a new job one he was excited about? Armie wondered as he wrapped plates in paper towels before placing them in moving boxes. Armie remembered how worried Timmy was about possibly losing his job at Ivory Advertising and how this had been his first job after getting clean. His first job, period. But Armie had ended their relationship and he was left sitting amongst packing boxes and questions. He had no right to Timmy’s life anymore.

But now, now he is sitting across from Nick at the end of a long week of meetings in NYC. The flurries are just starting to come down outside Nick’s office window, tinged orange in the glowing street lights, making the night look cozy and warm. Nick’s eyes are warm too, as he and Armie discuss the meeting that had just ended. 

“How have you been, Armie?” Nick asks, deep and rich, like the melted chocolate of his eyes had bubbled over and coated his voice as well. 

“I’ve been...good. Yeah. Um, Liz and I, we’re, well, we’re not together anymore.” Armie’s voice sounds foreign to his ears, the words still unfamiliar in his mouth despite having practiced them a few times now. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Nick sounds concerned. He had been friends with both of them in college and since, although Armie had always tried to keep him, if not at arm’s length, then a hand’s length away. Ever since that night their freshman year. 

“Yeah, well, thanks, thanks for that. We’re still friends, of course.” Armie tries to stretch a small smile across his lips but it feels insincere. He is never sure which mask and armor to put on for this conversation, such as it is. Or, more likely, he is unused to not wearing any armor at all. Uncertain which expressions he had adopted for the story he had pretended to live and which are his by birthright. It was only with Timmy he had finally stopped weighing out every expression that painted its way across his face, every word that was granted access beyond his lips. 

“Of course,” Nick pauses. “And you finally got yourself an assistant?”

“I did, indeed. No one told me how much easier life is with an assistant. Why didn’t I get one sooner?” Nick raises his eyebrows in response. “And you’ve got a new one too, huh?”

“New this summer, yes,” Nick nods as he looks down and shuffles through some papers on his desk. 

“What happened to Timmy? Where did he wind up?” Armie pulls at the sleeves of his suit jacket and readjusts his tie. 

“He joined the PR division at Netflix.” Nick looks up and catches Armie’s eyes briefly before Armie turns his focus to the plant on Nick’s desk, turning the small planter around in a circle. 

“Oh that sounds perfect for him,” Armie addresses the plant. 

“It does?” Armie glances up to see Nick’s eyebrows raised again. He glances back to the plant.

“He wanted to be an actor, when he was younger. He loves movies.” Armie tries for matter-of-fact and is unsure how successful he is. 

“I did not know that,” Nick sounds vaguely surprised. 

Armie feels his face burn. “Yeah, we, uh, bonded a bit during quarantine.”

Armie glances back up at Nick, who furrows his brows and rolls his lips between his teeth for a moment before saying, “You’re in town through the weekend, right?” Armie nods. “You should come to our holiday party tomorrow night, if you don’t have plans. I don’t know why I didn’t invite you sooner.”

“Our?”

“My boyfriend? I told you all about him last year when you were in town,” Nick sighs. 

“That’s right! Did you get that house on Fire Island?” Armie grins across the desk at Nick, surprised that he was able to remember anything from their conversation beyond the thought marching through his mind in an endless parade of “you broke it, you broke it, you broke it.” A refrain that had continued for months after that night, like a song stuck in his head that wouldn’t end, serving as judge, jury, and executioner. The volume turned down after talking to Liz, after putting their house on the market, and after listening to his father. Sitting in Nick’s office, the volume turns down a decibel more. 

“We did. And, well don’t tell anyone,” Nick looks around the office like there might suddenly be other people with them. “But I think I’m going to ask him to marry me on New Year’s.” 

“Nick that’s fantastic news - I’m so happy for you,” Armie feels his smile stretch wide and his eyes crinkle at the corners, no thought or purposeful decision needed. 

“Thank you. That - that means a lot.” Nick pauses and his face falls slightly. “Shit that was probably not sensitive with you and Liz having just split, huh?”

“Nick, we made the decision months ago. We’ve always been - been better at being friends, you know?” He’s not lying, but the full truth gets stuck somewhere in his throat, like a shovel that he is uncertain will dig himself further in or will dig himself out to freedom. 

Nick nods and reaches his arm out on the desk, palm up, as if he is inviting Armie to take his hand. “You should really come to the party tomorrow night, if you can.” 

“I will, Niki, thank you.” Armie stands to leave and pauses at the door, turning around to face Nick again. “What can I bring?” 

“Oh Armie, just yourself.” Nick grins at him, anticipating the exchange. 

Armie tilts his head and looks at Nick sideways, “You know that’s not going to cut it, Nick.”

Nick shrugs, “Okay then, bring a bottle of whatever you’re drinking.”

“I told you, I’m not drinking anymore,” Armie breathes out. 

“That’s right, of course. Then seriously Armie, I never get to see you, your presence is present enough,” Nick’s dimples are deep enough to drown in and Armie does not doubt his sincerity. 

Armie’s eyebrows furrow for a moment before a memory floats into his mind like the flurries floating their way gently onto the sidewalk below. The memory no longer lands with the hard thud of a punch to his chest. “I heard that Italian restaurant down the block makes the best cannoli outside of Sicily. Why don’t I bring a box?”

“I’ve heard that too,” Nick responds. “From...can’t remember who, but someone around the office. Yes, do that, I would love to try them.”

“Yeah, I’ve never tried them either.” He could have, on a night just over a year ago. He could have and maybe everything would have been different. “Looking forward to it, Niki.”

“Me too, see you then.” 

Armie knocks on Nick’s door the following evening, white pastry box, tied with a red and white string, carefully balanced on his palm. Nick opens the door, a drink in hand, and instrumental holiday music pours into the hallway. “Armie! You’re here!”

“I am,” he leans forward and kisses Nick on the cheek. “Happy holidays, Niki.” 

“Happy holidays, Armie,” Nick pushes his back against the door so Armie can enter. Armie walks into the kitchen to place the pastry box down and Nick follows him. “Oh! Armie - it was Timmy.”

Armie knows his heart doesn’t actually stop, hearts do not skip beats, no matter the battering they may take. And yet. And yet he feels his heart skid to a stop before resuming, pushing his life forward into the next moment. “Timmy?”

“He’s the one who was always talking about how good the cannoli from that restaurant by the office are,” Nick reminds him. Armie lifts his chin before breaking with Nick’s gaze and focusing his attention on lining the white box up with the clean grout lines in the tile. “He’ll be so excited you brought them.”

Armie’s voice hasn’t cracked since before his huge growth spurt, back when he was a pudgy teenager, but he has to put in effort to keep his voice from trembling or cracking when he asks, “Timmy is here?” his back still to Nick.

Nick claps his hand on Armie’s shoulder, “Of course he is.”

Of course he is. 

Armie had not prepared himself, had not selected armor to put on in preparation for seeing Timmy. A thought flickers, a candle in the darkest corner of his mind, that he may not have come if he had known Timmy would be here. He snuffs that candle out nearly as quickly as it is lit. 

Armie, nodding to Luca and the other partners, grabs a glass of sparkling water at the bar before finding a wall to stand beside. With his height it’s not easy to blend in but he’s had years of practice. Years from now, Armie will still believe that he could sense his presence before he turned his head and looked at him. Years from now, Timmy will argue, laughter on the heels of his words, that Armie noticed his movement in his peripheral vision and perhaps smelled the tea tree scent of his shampoo. Years later, Timmy will still smell like tea tree oil and Armie will still believe he can sense when Timmy enters a room. And yes, years later they will still be together, surprising perhaps no one but themselves. 

“Armie,” Timmy breathes out.

“Timmy,” Armie breathes in, turning his head to see the curls framing water lily eyes, and he allows the smile that is tickling the back of his teeth tumble forward onto his lips. Before he can say anything, uncertain though he is what to say, he knows he has to say something, keep Timmy here, hold him hostage with conversation for as long as he can, for as long as he is permitted, a young woman with dark blonde hair and lush lips approaches them. 

“Tim,” she exclaims, leaning forward to give him a tight hug. 

“Florence, how are you?” Timmy grins at her after they pull back from their embrace.

“I’m well,” she smiles at him.

“Have you met Armie?” Timmy’s long fingers gesture to the man beside him.

“Not in person, no,” she responds, holding out her hand to Armie who shakes it as she flashes him a wide smile. “And I’ve had much more contact with Ashton, than Armie. Nice to meet you, Armie.”

“You as well,” Armie grins at her as Timmy turns to look at him more directly. 

“Ashton?” Timmy’s eyebrows draw together and his lips are parted. Armie longs to trace the outline of his mouth with the tip of his finger, but he gave up that right. Instead he responds, “My assistant.” Timmy’s mouth forms an “O.”

Florence leans in and gestures to another young woman, with bright red lipstick and platinum blonde hair, and Armie recognizes her, although she’s not singing _Happy Birthday_ right now. It might be his imagination but he sees her eyes narrow upon seeing and recognizing him. “Tim is that your date?”

“I, uh, wouldn’t call her a date. But, yeah, that’s Sersh.”

“And if someone wanted to get her a drink with the hopes of impressing her, what might one order?” Florence grins and winks at Timmy. 

“Club soda with lime and a splash of grenadine,” Timmy responds without pausing.

“Have I mentioned you’re the best?” Florence squeezes his shoulder as she kisses the air beside his cheek.

“Not today,” Timmy returns her grin, his as always is slightly crooked in a way that makes something inside Armie clench. 

“Well you are!” Florence tosses over her shoulder as she makes her way to the bar. 

Timmy and Armie turn toward each other as though pulled by an internal force. 

“You got an assistant?” Timmy’s eyes meet his and he could drown in them.

“I got an assistant,” Armie’s smile tugs the corners of his mouth up further. He may well look like a grinning idiot; he feels stupidly happy. “You got a new job?”

“I got a new job,” Timmy’s own smile widens but he only looks more beautiful. He tucks a curl behind his ear and Armie is jealous of his fingers, his ear, the whole damn package of him. 

“Congratulations Timmy, that is wonderful,” Armie feels something like pride in his chest, even though he has no right to be proud of Timmy’s accomplishments. He has no right to Timmy anymore. 

They stand there for a few minutes surveying the party and sneaking glances at each other. The words come tumbling forth before Armie has a chance to review them, revise, and resubmit. “Do you want to get out of here? There’s a diner a few blocks away.”

Timmy spins to face him entirely. “I - yes, but Nick, don’t you have to? Wouldn’t it be rude to just leave?”

Armie pauses and thinks back to Nick’s grin framed by his carefully groomed stubble. “No, I don’t think Nick will be hurt if we leave.”

Timmy gazes up at him, his curls falling back, and that’s when Armie realizes how close they’re standing and his breath catches in his throat. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Armie’s voice rumbles from that place in his chest where Timmy’s grin has pierced him. “In fact, I’m pretty sure of it.”

Timmy shrugs. “Okay, let’s go then.”

They find themselves beneath fluorescent lights and Timmy keeps dunking the french fries on the plate between them into his strawberry milkshake. Armie blows on his coffee before taking a sip. Timmy had declined caffeine at this hour, explaining, “I have an early run scheduled tomorrow.”

They begin there, with Timmy’s running and move seamlessly between the events of the last year. They volley between Armie and Liz’s separation (Armie doesn’t know what else to call it - they lived together, they don’t anymore, they are, in fact, separated), Timmy’s new job, Armie’s conversation, if it can be called that, with his father. Timmy’s eyes grow wider with each of Armie’s stories and Armie’s eyes soften as he hears about the stresses of Timmy’s new job that propel him forward day-after-day and about the various races he has run, measured in kilometers rather than miles. 

They stay until the last few fries grow cold and there is nothing but a stain at the bottom of Armie’s mug. They walk out onto the sidewalk, where the snow has begun to stick, flakes catching in Timmy’s hair for a moment before they melt. 

“Can I kiss you?” Armie pushes his luck beyond getting a few more hours with Timmy in his life. Timmy nods rapidly and gets up on his toes. Armie feels himself melt despite the cold wind whipping around them. He presses his lips against Timmy’s. He feels like a deep sea diver breaking the surface of the waves and Timmy presses back like he’s been wandering the desert and finally found fresh water and, in the middle, where their lips meet, they can each finally breathe again.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry this has taken two weeks and a day... work has been very busy! Going forward, I will try to stick to a Friday posting schedule but can't really make any promises. 
> 
> cover art by chalamazed / stmonkeys

The kiss is open-mouthed and filthy. It is Armie’s back pressed against cold rough brick and Timmy’s fingers in his hair, tugging just enough to keep Armie _here._ It is Armie feeling the tickle of Timmy’s slight stubble on his upper lip. It is the cold night whipping around them, as they stand in the wind tunnel created by the skyscrapers on either side of the street. It is Armie pulling Timmy closer by the pockets of his jacket. 

Armie finally leans back to catch his breath and looks at Timmy, eyes glazed and cheeks red with the cold and beard burn. Timmy gazes up at him, his fingers twisted in the loose ends of Armie’s scarf. “Do you want to come to my place?” he asks and then his eyes widen even more. “I mean, just to, not for - you could spend the night but just to sleep.”

“I would love that, Timmy,” Armie feels the words pour out of him like a thick and viscous syrup, bubbling with warmth straight from the stovetop. 

“Yeah?” Timmy bites his lower lip, as if trying to bite back his enthusiasm. As if he needs to remain cool for Armie. Armie shakes his head internally. You beautiful, brilliant, idiot, he thinks and wishes he wasn’t wearing gloves so he could smooth that chapped lower lip with a swipe of his thumb. Later, maybe. 

Timmy tells him that he doesn’t live far and they then proceed to walk about twenty blocks. New Yorkers, Armie grumbles to himself. 

Timmy warns Armie that he wasn’t expecting company and that his apartment won’t be very clean. Armie feels a flutter in his abdomen and tries to hold back the grin that threatens to crinkle the corners of his mouth and eyes. Armie knows that when Timmy says his place isn’t ready for company it means that the kitchen will be spotless and the cheap wavy counters bare except for a large bowl of apples. His dining room table will be strewn with papers and the cords to his laptop and tablet and that his headphones will be resting on top of everything. He knows it means Timmy’s bed will be unmade. 

He wonders if he will see a glimpse of his hoodie and the cold edges its way in with the thought that maybe Timmy got rid of Armie’s hoodie. Maybe he decluttered, put a number of things in a bag to take for a donation and Armie’s hoodie was among them. They turn a corner and walk directly into a head wind and the oncoming force and cold pushes its way through Armie and pushes that worry out. 

Timmy’s place isn’t ready for company but Armie isn’t company. 

Armie wonders if Timmy still uses his dishwasher. 

They walk into the studio apartment, taking their shoes off and shake the snowflakes from their jackets. Timmy turns immediately into the kitchen to light the stove under the kettle while Armie hangs up their jackets in the hall closet.

He knows his way around Timmy’s apartment although he’s never been there. Armie isn’t company. 

They sit at the dining table and sip tea after a quick and half-hearted attempt by Timmy to shuffle the papers into some order, mostly sticking them all under his laptop. Eventually Timmy is yawning, stretching his arms above his head in a way that allows a little sliver of skin to show between his sweater and his pants. Armie bites the inside of his cheek and looks towards Timmy’s messy bed. 

Timmy clears his throat. “Do you want to, uh, use the bathroom first? I think I have a new toothbrush under the sink. My mom brought me a bunch last time she came over.” He shrugs as if to say, moms, what can you do?

Armie glances back at Timmy, his arms now down by his sides, no additional skin showing. He exhales through his nose and nods and pushes his chair back. The small bathroom makes him feel oversized although he smiles at the memory of Timmy waxing poetic about the water pressure in the small shower. He carefully folds his clothes, keeping on his boxer briefs and undershirt, and finds a bundle of extra toothbrushes and helps himself to one. Part of him is relieved at Timmy’s explanation for their presence even if another, more adult and rational part of him should be happy if these were for unexpected overnight guests. They have been apart far longer than they were together and Armie had always just wanted Timmy to be happy. But all wrapped up in the swirling golden cotton candy clouds of his wish for Timmy’s happiness is a hardened green feeling of wanting Timmy all to himself. 

He splashes water on his face just to have an excuse to bury his nose in Timmy’s bath towel.

He steps out of the bathroom just as Timmy is pulling a t-shirt over his head. Armie averts his eyes but then, when he looks back up, isn’t exactly sure where to look. The faded violet, Armie thinks that’s what the color must have been once, v-neck is oversized and soft, and Timmy’s collarbones are jutting and pornographic. The shirt falls down to his mid-thighs and thank goodness because his grey joggers fit tightly to his legs. 

Armie trails his fingers across the spines of Timmy’s books while he’s brushing his teeth and tries not to think about how he memorized every bump of Timmy’s spine during the week they had together. He recognizes a new book and picks it up to flip through it, a collection of short stories all revolving around themes of identity and isolation. Armie gets lost in a story written by a genderqueer person about coming out and pursuing medical transition during the quarantine. He’s shaken from his concentration by the cool touch of Timmy’s hand on his shoulder.

“Hey,” Timmy whispers, as though they are in a library, as though he doesn’t want to interrupt. 

Armie holds the book up so he can see the cover. “It’s very good.” 

“Yeah, I thought so too.” He looks up at Armie with a soft lopsided half smile and then looks over at the bed and pulls at the hem of his oversized shirt, twisting it around his finger. 

“Bed?” Armie feels like his voice is too loud for this small apartment and for Timmy standing there, slender and, not small, but smaller and Armie is instantly aware of how tall he is, how big he is, how he’s so much, too much. 

Timmy nods, once, twice, and breathes out, “Yeah.” 

They climb into bed and Armie carefully lies still on his back as Timmy shuffles around, flipping the pillow over, tucking the comforter around himself, moving his legs back and forth before whispering, “Armie?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you - will you hold me?”

“Of course,” the words rush out of Armie’s mouth as he rolls over to Timmy’s side of the bed, hurrying before Timmy can feel embarrassed, before he can regret what he’s said. As he takes Timmy in his arms, he feels a difference in his body. He’s just as lean as he has always been but there’s a new sturdiness about him, muscles where there used to just be flesh, a flat plank where there used to be a hint of belly. Armie shifts his hips backwards. He falls asleep surrounding Timmy, like he’s been granted the honor of being his fortress. 

Armie wakes up to streaks of pale winter sunlight creeping their way through the window and across the floor. He remained wrapped around Timmy all night and now is horribly aware of his morning erection trying to break free from the confines of his boxer briefs and Timmy’s narrow hips rocking back and forth brushing against him. Armie stretches and rolls on his stomach, hoping that Timmy is still asleep. 

Timmy rolls over and props himself up on one arm, “Morning” he croaks out.

“Morning,” Armie feels his grin paint itself across his face. And then, just as suddenly, he feels his eyebrows lower. “Hey, didn’t you have to go for a run?”

Timmy blinks and shakes his head, his curls a wild circus act flying around his face. “Nah, I texted Ansel last night that I wasn’t going to make it. Probably better for him, I slow him down.” 

Armie forces himself to freeze, he holds his expression, his body, all exactly as he was. He thumbs through his thoughts cataloguing them as they appear. He feels protective, this is the person who hurt Timmy, no matter that amends were made. He feels jealous, he ended things with Timmy and, of course, Timmy fell into the open (waiting, probably waiting, this is Timmy after all) arms of someone else. Armie holds back a snort and a shake of his head at the thought “Timmy went _running_ to him.” And finally he lands on that this is none of his business. He ended their relationship. He has no right, no claim, to Timmy. If he’s jealous, so be it, but he won’t say or do anything to smudge the beautiful painting they have just started to color together as friends. 

Timmy nudges his sleep-warm foot against Armie’s shin and clears his throat. When Armie glances at him, his cheeks flush a light pink and he asks, “How long are you in the city for?”

“Well I just wrapped up a week of meetings,” Armie starts.

“You’re heading back soon?” Armie tries to decipher Timmy’s tone. Is it relief? Whatever it is, he can tolerate it, he earned it. There is nothing he can create that he can’t carry. 

“No,” Armie tells him the truth and tries to measure his reaction. “I’m staying a week longer to, uh, look for apartments.”

“Apartments?” Timmy’s eyes widen. “Like to rent?”

“Or buy,” Armie says trying with his tone to soften the decade and family name that lies between them, while also trying to give Timmy a gift. 

“But,” Timmy skips right over their differences. Differences Armie had laid out like a map for Timmy to follow for why they cannot try again, why it wouldn’t work out this time. A reason other than someone else, someone against whom Armie can measure himself and still, after all this, fall short. “Like to live?”

Armie chuckles, “Yeah, like to live.” He pauses, takes a breath, and, “Would that be okay?” It is a city of eight million but it is Timmy’s first and foremost.

Timmy furrows his brows, “Yeah, yeah, of course. I just always,” he shifts his gaze briefly to the painting hanging above his bed and then back down to Armie, “associated you with the beach.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, um,” Armie shifts to his side to face Timmy, his erection subsided at the mention of Ansel, at the instant he realized that his relationship whatever it might be with Timmy did not exist in a snow globe of just them, of their kiss last night with a blanket of big fat snowflakes pulled tight around them. That whatever path they were heading down now might include company. “Liz and I sold our house and I thought it might make sense to relocate.”

“You sold your house?” Timmy’s voice rises and he flushes.

“Well, we’re in the process of it...why?”

“I just,” Timmy slides his head off his arm and lies face down on his pillow and then turns his head to face Armie, his face barely visible underneath his curls. “I just always imagined I would get to visit you there.” 

“You still can,” the words leave Armie’s mouth before he can sift through them, check them against judgment, against caution, against whatever might protect him and his heart. “If, if you want to.”

“Yeah, that would be, yeah,” Timmy says before pushing himself up. “Do you want coffee?” 

Armie rolls his eyes in response and Timmy giggles. It is an actual giggle, and Armie takes it, carefully folds it, and tucks away for later.

Where they shared tea last night, they now sit sipping coffee in the hazy morning light. Armie twists the mug around in his hands and pushes his thumb against a drop that landed on the table before asking, “If you always associated me with the beach, how did,” he glances out the window beside him and then back to Timmy, “how did you imagine us working out?”

“I,” Timmy looks directly into Armie’s eye and Armie could drown in the lilied-ponds but is saved, once more, by Timmy’s bravery. “I never allowed myself to imagine that far.”

They spend the week together. 

Armie learns that Timmy keeps his French press and coffee grinder in one cabinet but his coffee beans in another. 

He learns that Timmy still uses his dishwasher but only for dishes. He doesn’t believe it cleans pots and pans well enough because apparently Timmy scrubs his pots and pans meticulously, holding each up to the light as he scrubs at them to make sure he hasn’t missed a single speck.

He goes running with Timmy and struggles to keep up, despite the advantage of his height. Ansel joins them once and leaves them both in the dust, Timmy and Armie exchanging glances and laughing.

He learns that while Timmy has a closet and dresser full of clothes, he mostly wears clean clothes he pulls from his laundry hamper and then lets pile on the floor until the hamper is empty, at which point he fills it to bring down to the laundry room.

He learns that Timmy keeps his cereal and canned soup side by side. Not just in the same cabinet, but a can of chicken soup sitting next to a box of Capt’n Crunch, which stands next to a can of black beans besides a carton of pasta.

When Armie points out the inefficiency of Timmy’s kitchen organization, he shrugs and says, “It’s not like I’m in danger of pouring penne into my cereal bowl. I know where everything is and it’s not like anyone else is affected by it.” Timmy holds Armie’s gaze like he’s daring him.

And that’s how Armie learns that nobody else is regularly spending the night. That nobody else is helping themselves to coffee and cereal in the mornings.

One night, after Chinese take out, Armie loads the dishwasher and Timmy scrubs a pan from earlier in the day until Armie nudges the dishwasher door up with his ankle and crowds Timmy from behind, grabbing his wrists so he drops the pan and scrub brush. He presses his lips to Timmy’s neck and murmurs, “I think that’s clean enough” before turning him around and trailing his lips from his neck to his mouth. 

“Did you kiss me to get me to stop cleaning?” Timmy pulls away and laughs.

“Maybe,” Armie whispers before leaning in to kiss some more. They’ve been kissing all week, just kissing, and Armie has been enjoying it. Kissing without concern for time, without urgency to move to the next thing. Kissing as a means and an end. Except tonight, tonight Timmy presses his hips forward and lets Armie feel his hardening cock insistent against his thigh. And Armie shifts his leg between Timmy’s and small whine trickles up from Timmy’s throat. 

They make their way from the kitchen, an awkward four-legged being, arms wrapped around each other, pulling at clothes, until they fall onto Timmy’s unmade bed. Armie holds his weight off of Timmy until he groans and pulls him down, nipping at his throat, licking his Adam’s apple, and Armie tucks his head into the space where Timmy’s shoulder meets his neck and inhales. 

Armie slips his hand beneath Timmy’s sweater and rests his palm on the warm swathe of skin there as he mouths at Timmy’s collarbone that has been taunting him all week from the loose collar of the v-neck Timmy sleeps in. Timmy nudges Armie away and sits up and pulls off his sweater and the t-shirt underneath before laying down again and grinning up at Armie, tugging gently at Armie’s button down, blinking his eyes rapidly. Armie huffs a laugh as he unbuttons his cuffs so he can easily pull the shirt off. He lies back down on top of Timmy and his mouth betrays him by allowing this wrecked noise to escape his lips at the touch of skin against skin. 

Armie licks into Timmy’s mouth and Timmy’s fingers twist in Armie’s chest hair while the other hand slides below the waistband of his pants and he digs his fingers into the half globe of Armie’s ass. Armie groans, knowing there will be half-moon bruises there tomorrow. Armie leans his forehead against Timmy’s as they thrust against each other until Timmy is a writhing mess below Armie, lips shiny and wet, open and panting, cheeks flushed pink, and pupils dilated. Armie kisses him again and pulls back, groaning, “Fuck,” before sliding off the bed and pulling off his pants. Timmy scrambles to do the same and pulls lube and condoms from the bedside table. 

Armie never stopped using the dildo Timmy had given him for his birthday. It felt both like a betrayal and a promise, a promise that he hadn’t ended their relationship in vain. A promise every time he opened himself up with rough and greedy fingers, every time he fucked himself on that silicone cock, pressing it into that one spot, precome leaking from him. It was a promise and an allowance, something he permitted after he talked to Liz, after he hired an assistant, after his father spoke to him. Something he allowed himself, a treat that was a welcome change from his right hand. 

Armie never stopped using the dildo Timmy had given him, giggling at the time that it was the one that most resembled Timmy’s cock. He never stopped using it and still there is nothing that compares to Timmy sliding into him, hearing his breathing stutter behind him, feeling his hand wrapped around his cock, stroking him through, making sure his erection didn’t flag during the slow push, filling Armie up, touching him in places no one but Timmy has ever touched, no matter how many men fucked Armie before. Timmy’s fingers grip Armie’s hip, his thighs are pressed against Armie’s, and he stills, stops stroking Armie and runs a finger around Armie’s hole. Armie groans, imagining how stretched he is around Timmy’s cock and Timmy moans, a call and response, “Armie.”

Armie places a hand on the headboard, just below the painting, and pushes back, whining with neediness. He needs this, he needs Timmy to move. The noises of Armie coming apart seem to spring Timmy from his reverie and he begins the drag back and forth, in and out. Slowly at first until Armie keeps pushing back, relentlessly, pushing his hips against Timmy’s until Timmy sits back on his heels and holds each of Armie’s hip bones while he thrusts back, impaling himself over and over on Timmy’s cock. Over and over until his orgasm is pushed up and out of him, his thighs trembling with the effort. He falls forward onto his hands and bites back a whimper of oversensitivity as Timmy fucks into him, chasing his own orgasm, that comes with a sharp inhale of breath chased by a long low moan. 

As they rest together, sweaty and entangled, afterward, Timmy’s fingers skip around Armie’s chest, his head resting on Armie’s shoulder. Armie gazes down at him from the pillow, flipped over to avoid the wet spot, and takes a deep breath. He exhales and asks, “What changed?”

“Mmm?” Timmy hums lazily. 

“Why tonight?” Armie feels Timmy nuzzle down further, like he’s trying to listen to Armie’s voice echo in his chest. 

“I just - after the conversation we had, I just felt like I had something to prove during this year, this time, you know?”

“To me?”

“No,” Timmy drags out the syllable. “To me.” He pushes his face into Armie’s chest and his muffled voice floats up through the air, hazy with heat and the scent of sex, “And I did.” 

Earlier that day Armie had met up with Nick for lunch and then walked him back to the office. Luca had pulled him into his office for espresso and discussion of New York City real estate. Conversations with Luca were always a winding journey, filled with sights Armie never expected to see, and that afternoon had been no exception. Eventually he had texted Timmy and asked him to meet him at Ivory rather than at the restaurant as planned. 

His phone buzzed with the message that Timmy was there and he stepped out of Luca’s office at the same time Florence stepped out of her small office next to Nick’s. He glanced down the hallway and was surprised to see Saoirse and Timmy chatting and walking towards them. He raised an eyebrow when they reached him and Florence and Saoirse greeted Florence with a quick kiss. His eyes found Timmy’s, who quickly shifted his gaze away. He grabbed Timmy’s arm, too hard perhaps, perhaps there would be long bruises, faint but there, tomorrow, and pulled him towards him and kissed him hard on the mouth. When he pulled away Timmy stared at him, mouth slightly open, the tip of his tongue peeking out of the corner as it crept up into a smile. Armie felt something warm and big bloom inside him and felt that warmth creep up to his cheeks and he hoped, he hoped, that Timmy didn’t think he was flushed with embarrassment. He hoped that embarrassment is a different shade than pride, pride at being with Timmy, pride that Timmy has seemingly chosen Armie, for friendship, if not more. He hopes for more. He hopes these kisses, wonderful though they have been, are building, kiss by kiss, into something bigger, something bigger than the two of them.

Interrupting their gazing and smiling at each other, Florence rested her hand on Timmy’s shoulder and asked if she could pull him into her office to ask him something about Nick’s calendar. Left alone with Saoirse, Armie smiled at her. They had never been introduced but they recognized each other. A question bubbled through Armie’s mind, answered nearly immediately by Saoirse narrowing her eyes and pressing her lips into a thin line. She looked up at Armie and in a harsh whisper told him, “It had been a really long time since he had called me asking for the next available meeting. A really long time.” She held Armie’s gaze and lowered her voice more. “But that day, that day he did.”

There was the noise of a door opening and a faint shifting of air as Florence and Timmy walked out of the office, laughing about something. Florence’s face lit up at the sight of Saoirse and she linked her arm through hers. Armie placed a hand on Saoirse’s free elbow before they could walk by. She glanced up at him and mouthed, “Talk to him about it.” Or maybe it was “talk to Tim about it.” But it really didn’t matter.

A little later they walked, arms full of take out, towards Timmy’s apartment. 

“You said Liz was traveling?” Timmy shouted over the sound of an ambulance siren speeding by. 

“Oh yeah, she’s in Iceland right now.” Armie shifted the bags in his hands to grab his phone out of his pocket. He swiped it open and handed it to Timmy who gaped at the picture.

“Wow, for a talented photographer, she really takes awful selfies,” he laughed while shifting his gaze to Armie as though to check out his reaction, measure and weigh the joke, before looking back at the phone. 

“She really does,” Armie rejoined. “Swipe through though, she took some incredible landscape shots.”

He glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw Timmy’s thumb flick, once, twice, before pausing and handing the phone back to Armie. “They’re gorgeous. I don’t want to…” he left the words unspoken, hanging between them like a rope there to hang them or tie them together, and gestured vaguely towards Armie with the phone. 

Armie tried to tie the rope to anchor himself to Timmy. “It’s a shared album, don’t worry. I wouldn’t let you embarrass both of us by letting you stumble across pictures fabric swatches my stepmother sent me for chairs she’s reupholstering.” He tried to joke while thinking, there would be nothing to see, Timmy, not even pictures of you. He had removed those from his phone, storing them safely on a usb drive. Keeping Timmy’s privacy safe as well as his own heart, after months of there being a permanent smudge on the screen above his photos app, after months of falling asleep phone dropped on his chest, come cooling on his belly. 

Timmy nodded and kept swiping through the photos, remarking on them for the remainder of their walk. The wind is whipping between them but Armie feels the warmth from each of Timmy’s words as they become visible on exhales in the cold air, the warmth of Timmy’s excitement about Liz’s travels, her talent, her plans. The warmth that Liz’s fondness of Timmy, her excited texts when he told her of running into him, of kissing him, was returned. Warmth that pushed out the cold worry of Saoirse’s words, their implications, for now.

The coldness seeped back in, however, as they sat across from each other eating. Armie twisted the paper from the chopsticks between his fingers as he watched Timmy’s dumpling slide out from between the wooden utensils and land with a plop in the sauce. 

“Sersh,” Armie’s voice was rough as he started.. He hadn't planned this out, he wasn’t sure he was going to say anything. But he can’t not. He stacks hopes against kisses and wants to build something but cannot start with a cracked foundation. If they are going to build something together, it needs to be built to last. Armie isn’t sure he could survive anything less. “Sersh said you called her, that day that we, that I, um, ended things. You called her for a meeting.”

Timmy’s gaze was a measured steady thing as were his words, “You’re upset.”

“Yes, of course I’m upset!” Armie couldn’t keep it from his voice, he knew his worry had leaked across his features, his voice, his words. 

“Why?” Timmy’s tone and eyes remained sure and strong but outlined with soft kindness. 

“You were - you were tempted to use.” Armie’s forehead wrinkled with the horror of what might have happened, with the realization that his actions could have made this moment impossible, could have taken Timmy from him, from the world. The paper from the chopsticks was tattered on the table. 

“But I didn’t, I called for help,” Timmy pointed out like a gentle urging along, pushing them forward. 

“Sersh said it had been a long time since - “

“Exactly, it had been a long time, a really long time since I wanted to use. It took something so big, so monumental to make me want to cope that way. And I reached out, Armie, immediately, right on the heels of it.” 

“I did that,” Armie whispered, unsure if he intended Timmy to hear although he did and Armie probably intended him to.

“You - you didn’t think you devastated me?”

Armie swallowed against something in his throat at the word _devastated,_ swallowed against a shovel he could use to dig up and out or further down. “I - I guess - “

“Were you sad?”

“Of course I was.” Timmy blinked and gestured a turned up open palm in response. “I hate that I made you feel that way.” 

“But you did.” He did and he will have to learn to accept it if they are to build something from kisses and hope and truth. 

Later that night as they lie there, sweaty and entangled, Timmy says, “I needed to prove to myself that I wouldn’t just be some addict that you would always worry about. You, you didn’t - you accepted that sometimes I will want to use and that I’ll, you know, get myself to a meeting if, when that happens. Timmy then adds, “And because you told Nick about us.” Armie frowns and Timmy answers the unasked question. “I was afraid you would just, like, let us be together but never actually say anything. Like, like you did with Liz, except we would be a real, um, couple.” The last word sounds tentative, like he is sliding a foot out on the ice to see if it will hold.

“How did you know?” Armie places the hope that by not addressing the word, Timmy will know he can slide forward, there are no cracks in the ice, in their foundation, he lays that hope upon that.

“Armie,” Timmy’s voice is shaded with laughter. “Why do you think Florence pulled me into her office tonight? She didn’t need help with anything.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by way too much research into what the skin connecting the thumb and the index finger is called. 
> 
> Also: warning for very brief parental rejection. It occurs when Armie’s mother leaves the bathroom and ends with Timmy grabbing a blanket. It is short and not terribly cruel (to my mind) but it is there, please take care of yourself. 
> 
> cover art by chalamazed / stmonkeys

Outside the snow has turned to freezing rain and it pelts the windows of the studio apartment. Between the ratatat of the ice and the eerie whistle of the wind between the tall buildings, the apartment, with the hissing radiator feels warm, cozy even, in a way it hadn’t before Armie had walked in, dwarfing the space but also filling it, like a puzzle piece connecting two halves, bringing a whole picture into focus. 

Timmy unwraps himself from Armie, from the kingdom they create in bed together, and stumbles over to the bathroom, yawning and scratching his chest. He secretly delights in Armie’s clothes strewn beside the bed and his sweater draped over the chair in the dining area. He pees with the door open out of habit and glances over his shoulder at the sound of Armie moving, watches as he burrows into the warm spot left behind by Timmy and soft sleep snuffles waft up from beneath the covers. 

Timmy feels something like a light golden feeling flutter just beneath his rib cage. He can’t believe he gets this.

He gets Armie. 

He gets Armie open and out and willing to be his. Willing to stand beside Timmy and tell the world this is the person he chooses.

For now, at least for now, Timmy’s betraying brain reminds him. 

He gets himself, probably more importantly, although despite all the sayings about how one needs to love oneself first and foremost, he can’t help but list himself second. A close second, he reassures himself. He gets himself with accomplishments and purpose in addition to recovery. He will always be Timmy, addict. But now his Homeric epitaph could stretch to include Timmy, runner. Timmy, works at Netflix. And Timmy, Armie’s boyfriend. Maybe, maybe. 

He spins in place until he locates his joggers, one leg wedged under the comforter and the other hanging over the edge of the bed, as if posed in a very wide split. He tugs them out and on and goes to the kitchen to make coffee. 

He carries two mugs, careful not to slosh the hot liquid over the edges, back to the bed and rests one on one of the bedside tables. He doesn’t use a coaster, the ikea furniture is already well-worn, soft along the edges of the pressboard corners, but he does try to line it up with the ring that’s already stained into the light wood. Armie shifts in response to the mattress dipping beside him and with sleep-hoarse voices asks, “Timmy?” He stretches out a hand, eyes still closed, and lands on Timmy’s wrist, splashing a little coffee into the crook of his thumb. 

“Hey, hey,” Timmy giggles and shifts the coffee to the other hand and sucks the coffee off his skin. 

Armie opens one eye and his lips spread into a sleepy grin. “You brought me coffee in bed?”

“If you don’t spill all of it, yes,” Timmy tries to pull his mouth into a pout but can’t stop the corners of his mouth as they crawl upwards. 

“Oh god, you’re amazing,” Armie pushes himself up and takes the mug from Timmy and takes a long swallow and Timmy has to tear his eyes away from Armie’s throat when a deep familiar groan escapes Armie’s lips. 

“Either this coffee is _really_ good or I’m not as good in bed as you initially let me think,” Timmy pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. 

Armie sets his mug down next to Timmy’s with a thud and pulls him into his embrace, surrounding Timmy with his scratchy stubble, the faint scents of detergent and deodorant, and something that is all Armie and has rapidly become familiar to Timmy like the scent of his mother’s closet or his grandmother’s garden. He allows himself to sink into it and lets Armie’s voice echo around him, “I’ll show you good in bed.”

Armie holds him and rolls them back and forth in the bed as laughter joins the wind and the ice in the air, the laughter of two people who don’t need a joke as an excuse for their mirth. A laughter that is so close to the surface, waiting for the slightest summoning to burst forth. A revealing laughter. A laughter at the razor’s edge of a relationship where every stage is a slipping past anxiety into comfort and a holding of a mirror up to a future when this exact feeling can never quite be recaptured. 

When he looks later, Armie’s coffee mug has left a new ring on the bedside table, right next to the one that was already there. And the two rings together look like an infinity sign.

They have days like these when everything stretches out before them and there is nothing to fill those hours except time together. 

They have days like these but there is the constant countdown in Timmy’s mind to Armie’s departure.

They have days like these but as the countdown grows louder the conversations they are not having get squeezed into an ever shrinking space, like elevator doors closing in on them and the words that need to be said. 

Timmy tries to stay in the moment, in the here-and-now. He tries. But he struggles. Struggles to enjoy the difference between Armie kissing him in the morning, clean shaven and smelling like tart bergamot and warm lavender and moss, and when he returns from apartment hunting with scratchy kisses and smelling like wet wool, the smokiness of the city air suffused with hotdog vendors and roasting nuts and himself, the cologne having settled into his skin and the damp salt air scent that Timmy has always associated with him at the fore. 

He struggles to not countdown how many mornings they have left, how many evenings, how many kisses. 

It doesn’t help, it blurs the lines, it makes math suddenly something without a right answer, neat and tidy, that Armie keeps postponing his departure. Another apartment suddenly on the market or a possible bidding war for one that Armie had liked enough to bring Timmy to. Liked enough to have Timmy stand in the large master bedroom and turn in a circle wondering whether he would be a guest here or something more. 

Something more are the words that remain unsaid, unsaid like Armie moving all his stuff from the company apartment to Timmy’s. Something more are their plans for after Armie gets on that plane. If he ever does. Something more is what happens after the last day of the two of them being crammed into Timmy’s apartment finally slips through his fingers and onto the floor, where Armie’s clothes have been strewn like they belong here, like they, too, live here.

Timmy sits at the table, picking off the mushrooms that somehow made it onto the extra cheese side of the pizza, and dropping them back in the cardboard box, when Armie sighs. Timmy glances up at him and mumbles, “Sorry” and drops the mushrooms on his plate instead. He reaches his hand out to pick up the other mushrooms from the box when Armie’s large hand lands on top of his. 

“Stop that,” Armie’s voice sounds like laughter deep in his chest. 

Timmy looks back to Armie, who flashes him a small smile. Timmy dips his finger in the tomato sauce where the cheese doesn’t reach the crust, and sticks it in his mouth. “Yeah?” he asks around his finger.

“I, uh, got tickets for my flight back,” Armie admits.

“Oh yeah? When are you leaving?” Timmy asks without looking, staring at his pizza and wondering why he took another slice. He’s not hungry anymore.

“Timmy.” Timmy loves the way his name sounds in Armie’s mouth, loves when it’s groaned, shouted, whispered. He loves when it’s the way Armie answers his phone, because of course he knows it’s him. It sounds like a “U” with the middle dipping even deeper into the rich baritone of his voice. Right now it sounds like the edge of a warning and a soft bed he wants to drop onto. He looks up and his face matches. His eyes crinkle at the corners and there is a furrow between his eyebrows and Timmy immediately lifts his hand and presses his finger, sticky with spit and tomato sauce, to the wrinkle, smoothing it out. Armie huffs a chuckle. “I, um, leave,” he clears his throat, “On the twenty second. I know you, you have Christmas with your family.” 

Pauline is flying in. It will be the Christmas they didn’t get the year before. Quarantine had ended but travel between the US and other countries had still been restricted (by the other countries, of course). Timmy has been looking forward to it since he knew his family would be back together for the holiday. He knows he’s been excited and he knows that Armie knows as he has patiently listened to Timmy’s words tumble from his mouth, breathless and wandering, sharing holiday memories from his childhood and from recent years. Those middle years unrecounted, stories either lost to haziness or completely absent. Holidays when Timmy would show up but not be there. When he would make excuses about meeting up with friends back in town just for the holiday whom he promised to see. When he would feel nauseated at the aroma of the holiday dinner, the savory and sweet scents of turkey stuffed with roasted chestnuts and bûche de Noël, familiar from his grandmother’s kitchen, her soft voice guiding him through the steps, and, yet, suddenly repulsive. 

Timmy shifts in his seat and admits, “Yeah, I do.” Admits but is torn. Admits but wants to offer to skip the holiday, minimize its importance, assure Armie it’s okay, he’ll… he realizes he doesn’t even know what to ask for, for Armie to stay? For Armie to take Timmy with him? 

“And I know your birthday is just after Christmas,” Armie continues as if not seeing the war raging inside Timmy.

“Yeahhhh,” Timmy drags out his response. Something coils inside him, where a light golden feeling once fluttered. He focuses on blotting the top of the pizza with a paper napkin, no longer hot, the cheese starting to congeal. The slice of pizza he doesn’t intend to eat. 

He hears the whoosh of air that Armie sucks in and looks up at him. “I was wondering if you wanted to come, if I could get you tickets, if you didn’t have any plans, for your birthday,” he finishes as he runs out of air. 

“You want me to come to LA to celebrate my birthday with you?” Timmy summarizes, mostly because he can’t believe what he heard. He’s partially convinced that he’s hallucinating and wondering if sudden brain damage from years of drug abuse can have delayed onset, because everything bad in his life somehow ties back to mistakes he made when he was a teenager, back to this one thing, and is about to pull out his phone to google when Armie interrupts his spiral with, “Yeah, you probably have plans. I’m sorry, that was presumptuous of me.”

“No, no, no,” Timmy can’t get the words out of his mouth fast enough. Wants to push them out, make them sprint across the space between them. “I don’t have plans, I would, like, love that. If you’re sure?”

Armie reaches under the table and grabs Timmy’s hand, the one that’s not dirty with spit and tomato sauce and pizza grease. “I’m sure, Timmy. Actually - “ he glances over to the bed and then back to Timmy, taking a breath that fills his chest. “Actually, I was going to have my parents over on the twenty-sixth. It’s, it’s a bit of a tradition. And it’s the first year where, well, Liz won’t be there.”

Timmy nods once, twice. “Yeah, okay, I can fly out on the twenty-seventh.” He would prefer to wake up with Armie on his birthday but he understands. 

“No, I - “ Armie breaks his gaze and looks down at the plate in front of him. Unlike Timmy’s plate, which looks like a war zone, Armie’s is clean save a few crumbs and a drip of tomato sauce at the edge. “I was wondering if you would be willing to fly out early enough to meet them?”

“To meet them?” Timmy feels his palm get sweaty in Armie’s grasp.

“As, as my boyfriend?” Armie looks back up, a grin dances back and forth on his mouth.

“Boyfriend?” Timmy tries to keep his voice from cracking, tries to not draw attention, tries not to doing anything to remind Armie of the age difference between them, as if Armie would suddenly remember, suddenly change his mind. 

“Boyfriend,” Armie confirms. Armie suddenly has a lapful of Timmy, all skinny arms and legs wrapped around him and covering his neck and face with kisses, a thousand plus one. “I take it,” Armie’s laugh is a joyous sound throughout the apartment, drowning out the wind threatening to test the strength of the seals on the windows. “I take it, that's a yes.”

“Mmhmm,” Timmy hums as he continues to kiss Armie.

“To being boyfriends? To visiting? To meeting my parents?” Armie lists.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Timmy laughs into Armie’s neck and then pulls him into a deep kiss, like those in the movies. And it feels like they’re in a movie and this is their happy ending. 

Except real life isn’t like the movies and as he sits on the plane, Timmy tries to push down the anxiety that keeps threatening to bubble up. He tries to enjoy flying first class for the first time. He stretches out and closes his eyes in an attempt to draw sleep closer as his Christmas flight barrels through the late night sky. 

He arrives with the stale stench of airplane clinging to him and his rumpled clothes. His rumpled clothes from his family’s Christmas, from wanting to squeeze every possible minute of time with them from the day and also wanting to get to the airport with plenty of time. He hasn’t flown in over two years but the panic of possibly missing his flight hasn’t been healed with time. The thought of it still coats him in an instant cold sweat. All the more so because this is the last flight out. Even more so because Armie insisted on first class tickets. (He had tried to push back, he had tried to insist it was all too much.)

Armie drives him along nearly empty freeways to the beach house in Malibu. The house remains a source of confusion for Timmy. Armie has warned him it’s partially packed up but that some of the packed boxes have been unpacked so he can live there. Timmy remains uncertain if it’s ever been on the market officially. He feels sure of one thing though. He feels sure that Armie doesn’t really want to sell the house and he feels sure it’s not because Timmy said he always associated Armie with the beach. Not only that at least, Timmy thinks as he remembers Armie looking at the painting above Timmy’s bed when he thought Timmy wasn’t looking. 

He wakes the next morning early, jet lagged. He peers out at the December gray sky a gradient with the cold gray waves crashing on the sand below it. He wakes early and curls his body around Armie’s embrace that holds him tight, like he might fly away in the middle of the night, just like he arrived.

Armie had given him a brief tour last night before the three days they spent apart (not even, not even three days, not three full days) pulled them toward each other and the couch in front of the fireplace and Armie’s bed downstairs. Armie had given him a tour but Timmy already knew his way around. Armie had given him a tour but Timmy didn’t need it. He had breathed in deeply and recognized the air heavy with damp and thick with salt, just as he always knew it would be. Just as he had licked that taste from Armie’s skin. 

The dinner with Armie’s family is a stilted affair. Familiar to Timmy from his parents entertaining certain guests, business associates really. Familiar to Timmy from visiting friend’s houses and meeting their families. Familiar but stilted and awful. Nothing like his family, warm and worn. Armie’s family is crisp modern lines. And Timmy wonders if it is a function of Armie’s mother being in the same space as his father and step-mother and asks Armie in hushed tones while they’re in the kitchen pulling together the last pieces of the meal, while his family shares polite conversation over stiff drinks. Armie assures him it’s not. Armie assures him that this is how they all are, always. Armie assures him and he doesn’t feel any better.

Timmy feels his posture unnaturally straight and still all through the meal. He puts down his silverware when asked a question and makes eye contact when answering. He dabs his mouth with the cloth napkin and sips his Perrier. Timmy, who was introduced as “This is Timmy” just like Liz was once introduced as “This is Liz.” Timmy who knows Armie’s family knows who he is, who he is to Armie, but also understands that that second half of the sentence, “my boyfriend,” is just too much right now. Too much for Armie to say aloud to his parents’ faces, to see their eyes change with that word. Too much to say without the distance provided by the telephone, when silence can be interpreted as generously as possible when there’s no expression to disprove wishful thinking. 

Armie’s father and step-mother say good-bye just as his mother excuses herself to the powder room (her words). 

Timmy shakes his hand and kisses her on the cheeks and excuses himself to clean the kitchen and to give Armie the illusion of privacy despite the open floor plan.

“Your friend - ” Armie’s father begins.

“Timmy is not my friend,” Armie is quick to cut him off and Timmy feels that golden fluttery feeling again.

“Seems very nice,” his father continues, without acknowledging his son. “I hope he makes you happy.” And Timmy lets himself breathe again. 

Armie’s mother emerges from the bathroom as the door closes behind her ex-husband and his wife. 

“Mother,” Armie’s voice is a warm and hopeful thing. Timmy wonders if he should join him at the door. “I was happy you came. Surprised, but happy.” 

“Nonsense, Armand,” she says as Armie helps her with her coat. “I did consider not coming but all my friends told me I should.”

“Well thank them for me.”

“They told me you would cut me out if I didn’t come and it wasn’t worth losing a son over something that would be over and done with in two months.” The coldness in her voice pushes Timmy away and he feels shame at his cowardice. The coldness in her voice pushes him out onto the cold deck and the chilly night air, mild compared with New York but still the wind coming off the water on a late December night is not a warm one. 

Timmy grabs one of the blankets and wraps it around him and sits down on one of the deck chairs and gazes at the nothingness between him and the ocean. He holds that middle distance and tries to slow his racing heart and tries to swallow against a feeling like a heavy stone that might sink him, that might sink them, before they really got a chance to sail. His heart hurts for Armie. His heart hurts for them. He hopes he is strong enough both for Armie and for them. 

Armie steps out from the house onto the deck, Timmy hears him but doesn’t turn around. He pulls the blanket around him closer. Armie sinks onto the loveseat next to him and drapes another blanket around both their shoulders and burrows his arm beneath the layers so it’s wrapped around Timmy with only their clothes keeping their skin from each other. Armie tilts his head back and looks up at the night sky.

“Armie,” Timmy begins.

“Can we - can we not discuss it? Timmy? Not tonight at least,” Armie’s voice is soft below the crashing of the waves. 

“Sure,” Timmy tries to hold Armie with his voice, tries to make his “sure” one that _is_ sure, certain, and strong. He feels Armie lean against him more and, despite the cold damp air, feels warmth bloom from inside him, like gold, and it flutters. He’s not often gotten to fill this role for others, more often being the one leaning. 

They sit together listening to the waves and watching the stars, and imagining they see invisible rope connecting the heavens and the tides, marrying them. 

“All these stars reminds me of that song,” Armie says, breaking the spell.

“Which song?”

Armie begins to hum and, after a moment, Timmy recognizes the melody and starts singing. By the time they reach the second to last verse, they’re shouting into the empty thick inky night.

_And all I do is miss you and the way we used to be  
All I do is keep the beat and bad company  
All I do is kiss you through the bars of a rhyme  
Julie, I'd do the stars with you any time_

By the time they finish, they’re out of breath and have shed the top blanket, letting it drop to the deck floor. They sit in silence as the waves take up the beat once more and Timmy feels his heart thud-thud-thudding in his chest.

Armie leans back against him and whispers in his ear, _”You and me babe, how about it?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lest you think Dru’s words are too harsh to be realistic, those are the same words my grandmother told my father about eventually deciding to attend his wedding. 41 years later and my parents are still married… 
> 
> Song lyrics from “Romeo and Juliet” by Dire Straits, but you all know that I’m actually thinking of the Indigo Girls cover.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cover art by chalamazed / stmonkeys

Timmy wakes up the morning of his twenty-sixth birthday as the room is slowly painted in streaks of warm gray morning light. His clothes and Armie’s hair smell like smoke from the fire pit the night before and his throat is dry.

He untangles himself from Armie’s fortress embrace and stumbles to the bathroom. After relieving himself he cups water from the tap to his mouth, chasing away the rawness of the shouting singing of song after song from the night before. He glances in the mirror, his curls a wild and messy nest cradling the flush of wind burnt cheeks. He pushes two finger tips to his right nipple and then his left savoring the dull swollen ache.

He starts to return to Arnie’s bed before he stops, transfixed by the view outside one of the large windows. Early morning surf beating and breaking against dark damp sand, the stuff of mariner’s odes and epics. 

He shifts his gaze to stare at Armie, spread across the bed, face tucked into the depression in the pillow Timmy had been using. 

Timmy twists his torso this way, then that before pulling on boxer briefs and a shirt. His hips ache as he recalls his knees sliding further apart, the tugging pulling in his groin that would have been uncomfortable if his entire focus wasn’t on the stretch slipping and tugging slide of Armie’s cock filling him up again and again, as the inky blue of last night blanketed their bodies, and as Timmy thrusted in time to Armie’s hips slamming against, around, bracketing, his cock into Armie’s hand, creating a tunnel that was just too loose, not enough. Instead Timmy’s focus drawn to that star shiny spot that Armie caressed relentlessly with each slip stretching tugging slide of his cock, as though he was trying to shove himself into Timmy, as though he could finally make them whole once more by the magnetic force of their lust, until stars showered down around him and his orgasm came hurtling forth with a shout on his lips and pouring out below him. 

Timmy walks upstairs to the kitchen and opens cabinets to peer inside at the contents and then shuts them slowly, as though a rogue thud of a cabinet door closing would disturb Armie. He finally finds what he is looking for and, with just as much care to avoid making any noise, locates the griddle to place on the stove. 

He hears the thud of Armie’s footsteps up the stairs and then the whooshing noise of a deep inhale. “Pancakes?”

“Pancakes,” Timmy grins at the griddle, the heat on his face not entirely from the oven flame. 

Strong arms snake their way around Timmy, Armie’s hands resting on his belly. “I could have made you pancakes,” Armie’s voice rumbles and echoes in Timmy’s ear, brushing past unruly curls. “You are the birthday boy after all.” 

“Yeah but I actually wanted pancakes for my birthday breakfast,” Timmy retorts, twisting his body this way and that, trying, in vain to get away from roving fingers digging to the spaces between his ribs. 

“Ouch,” Armie’s voice takes on the drama of the wounded. “I’m sure I could have managed pancakes.” 

“Ouch yourself,” Timmy bites back a smile and a giggle as Armie’s strong fingers find an especially ticklish spot. 

“I guess I should go get your birthday presents then,” Armie releases Timmy from his hold and presses a kiss into disorderly curls. 

“Presents?” Timmy glances up at Armie before looking back down at the griddle and flipping a golden pancake. “I thought I said…”

Armie steps to the side and peers into a saucepan where gentle and lazy bubbles rise to the surface before bursting. “What’s this?”

Timmy allows himself to be distracted from the matter of presents. He had insisted that the plane tickets to visit were enough, more than enough. “Oh that’s a compote. I found some berries in the freezer.” He pauses, freezing for a moment before pushing himself forward. “I - I hope it’s okay that I - “

“My smoothie berries?” Armie lips press into a line.

“I knew I should have asked,” Timmy stares down at the bubbles rolling up, accusing him with a pop-pop-pop sound as they break at the surface. “I’m sorry. I can - “

“Timmy, Timmy, Timmy,” Armie’s lips break formation and curl up. “It’s okay. I can’t even remember the last time I had a smoothie. I think, I think Liz took the blender.”

Timmy pushes his breath through pursed lips, his shoulders sagging in relief. 

“It’s just, Timmy?” 

Timmy glances up at Armie, twisting his lips to the side so he can chew the corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”

“Compote?”

Timmy’s sigh is a gentle one, like the bubbles rising to the surface, their breaking now a relaxing tumble into the warm thick liquid, mimicking their master. “A compote is a dessert, essentially, made of whole fruit with - “

“Timmy, I know what a compote _is,_ I’m just not sure why you’re making one.”

“For the pancakes,” Timmy’s turned his attention back to the golden circles, and shrugs one shoulder.

“A compote? For the pancakes?” Timmy nods in response. “I thought I had maple syrup...someplace.” Armie swings open the wide stainless steel refrigerator door and scans inside. 

“I, um, don’t like maple syrup,” Timmy addresses the berries as he swirls a spoon through the thickening mixture. 

The heavy refrigerator door slams shut as Armie spins around to face Timmy, arms crossed in front of his chest. “You - you don’t like maple syrup.”

“No, I don’t,” Timmy informs the berries as he reaches over to turn down the heat.

“Oh, well, you must never have had _real_ maple syrup from - “

“I have - from Vermont, from Canada, from wherever.” Timmy glances up at Armie before shifting his attention back to the pancakes, sliding the spatula under each and transferring them to the platter beside the stove and ladling more batter onto the griddle. “I just, I just don’t like the taste of...maple? Maple, I guess.”

“Compote. Berry compote,” Armie says one more time with a tilted nod, looking at Timmy as if his eyes could take in the entirety of him, including this new information, fit it into what he already saw, what he already knew, to form a more complete and perfect picture. He turns and lumbers down the stairs. 

By the time Timmy carries the platter, balancing it carefully, a slight cold sweat breaking out on his brow at the thought of all those pancakes sliding in an avalanche to the floor. He glances at the floor and it stares back at him, no promises of being forgiving should he slip. He balances the saucepan with the berry syrup in the other hand. 

When Timmy arrives at the table, it’s already set, complete with carafes of juice and coffee, and a small pile of presents by his seat. Armie helps Timmy set down the food and gestures to the chair, eyebrows wiggling and mouth curling in anticipation of making Timmy and the presents Timmy has insisted he didn’t want, didn’t need, the center of attention. 

Timmy slides onto the chair and stares at the gifts in front of him. There are only two, he notes as he rolls the seam on the cuff of his shirt underneath his thumbnail, relishing the bright fleeting spot of sharpness that comes with the movement. The chair feels cool against the backs of his thighs and he rubs the balls of his feet against the smooth floor. 

Timmy picks up the smaller of the gifts as Armie slides several pancakes onto each of their plates and fills their mugs with coffee, the steam carrying the rich aroma, harmonizing it with the sweet vanilla of the pancakes and the tart berry tang. 

Timmy holds the robin egg blue felt pouch in between his fingers and lets a heavy silver trinket drop into his palm. It’s heavy, with ball screws on the end of each side of a semicircle, and a round tag and a brass key hanging off it. He rubs his fingertips over the round tag, his name _Timothée Chalamet_ is engraved on it. He closes his eyes briefly, wondering if he could recognize the shapes of the letters he’s been familiar with since the time his sister fitted his fingers around a crayon, guiding his cubby hand through the letters and the accent, when other children his age were scribbling messy abstract drawings on their paper. He opens his eyes and runs his finger tip over the jagged edges of the key before looking at Armie, eyes squinted, head tilted. 

“It’s, it’s a key,” Armie’s voice is deep but soft, like he’s nervous to put the full weight of his words onto them, onto Timmy, afraid they’ll be too much, create cracks where there were none before. 

“You - you found a place in the city?” Timmy wonders if it was one of the few places Armie took him to see. Wonders what a key means about his place in Armie’s new home, in his new life. They’re boyfriends but he’s never been someone’s boyfriend before, doesn’t know what that really means, what is expected of him, and, more importantly, and worse, what is not expected from him. What would be too much. 

“No, no, not yet. I - “ Armie starts, stops. The words moving forward and coming to an abrupt halt, crashing into each other. “It’s to this house.”

Timmy’s eyes widen and his stomach ties in the heavy knot of iron coils, the type that hold bridges across rivers. “You’re not, not moving then?”

“No!” Armie’s eyebrows furrow and a wrinkle appears between them. Timmy longs to smooth it away with his thumb but holds back, suddenly off-balance, less sure of his place in Armie’s life. “No,” he says again with softer, more tender edges. “I decided, when you said you always thought of me at the beach. It cemented something that I had been thinking, had been in the back of my mind this whole time. This whole year, since Liz and I… I bought her out of her half of the house.” He looks at Timmy, his gaze naked before him, laying himself bare. “I still want to move to the city, buy a place there. But - “ He swallows, breathes in, exhales. “But, I thought I would live in LA, live here, until I can find a place. A place where we can both be. That maybe I wouldn’t move yet. Not until it would make sense for us to live together.” He swallows again, straightens the saucepan on the trivet, dips his finger in a drip of coffee on the edge of his saucer, sucks it off the tip of his finger, and Timmy tries to not be distracted by the sight of Armie tongue, darting in and out from between his lips. “Not until it would make sense for us to _talk_ about living together.”

Timmy nods, cuts into his pancakes with the side of his fork and shoves a bite in his mouth. 

“I hope that this is, um, not the only time you’ll be out here.” Armie ventures forward, braving the silence Timmy has created. “I want you to feel at home here, to be able to come and go even if I’m not here. Like if your flight gets in and I’m not…” His voice trails off as he takes in Timmy as if gulping from his juice glass, trying to determine the flavor of it. For a moment the white noise of the waves outside fills the space. 

“Yeah,” Timmy begins as he swallows the mouthful of pancakes and fruit. “That would be, yes, thank you. I love that.”

Armie’s rib cage expands with grateful air. He exhales and looks over Timmy’s shoulder at the ocean outside. “I was, y’know, hoping, maybe, because I do plan on being in the city more often, that you would feel comfortable,” he pauses and then, “_givingmeacopyofyourkey._” He looks at Timmy, whose fork is hovering above the stack of quickly cooling pancakes - it’s alright, they’ll reheat just fine - and then back over his shoulder.

Timmy sets his fork down on his plate, the clinking noise dragging Armie’s attention back to the table, back to Timmy. “Wouldn’t the company apartment be more comfortable?” Timmy points out thinking of his small studio, mostly bed and books. 

The blues of Armie’s eyes look like the blurred edges of a watercolor painting, the corners turned downward. He places his hands on the table, palms up. “I wasn’t asking to move in with - the company apartment would be my home base. I just - “ He pulls his lips in between his teeth as he seems to gather his thoughts from where they went scurrying, to the corners of the large room they’re sitting in, to the far reaches of his mind, when Timmy pushed back, or even held firm, no pushing, at his suggestion. “I want you to feel at home - at ease here. And I guess I was hoping you might feel, if not the same, then - “

“I do, I do,” Timmy’s voice is deep and soft, like Armie can fall and fall and trust he’ll be caught and cradled. “I’ve just never...I’ve never done this before.” The words taste bright yellow green in his mouth and the winter beach sunlight streams through the windows and wraps itself around him. He places his hand, palm down, on top of Armie’s and links their fingers, ready to walk in step with him, ready to leap. 

Timmy’s first love liked him well enough. But always in private. Timmy never got to say the words aloud. Never got to hear them. Timmy’s first love made Timmy feel that their love was too sacred to share with others, that keeping it hidden kept it special and safe. Until he left and took part of Timmy with him, and, with that part, toppled the whole house of cards that had been delicately balanced. 

Timmy’s second love nearly blew him apart, an explosion, from the inside. Timmy’s second love was full of promises of how Timmy would feel and, later, much later, how this was the last time. Timmy’s second love was full of promises never kept and words never spoken and as Timmy picked up the pieces of the wreckage, he built something different, something stronger for having been shattered. Not because of empty promises but despite them.

Timmy’s third love also never told him he loved him. Not yet at least. Timmy had spit out hazy lust-filled confessions but they were never returned. Not in words. Not in words but Timmy’s third love makes him feel that he would not care about Timmy’s past, that he would carry Timmy’s secrets, and would defend him, that he would be the hero that Timmy could let him be. Timmy’s third love makes Timmy feel like he could also, finally, be a hero. Timmy’s third love is handing him a key to the kingdom and Timmy wraps long, slender fingers around it, letting the metal heat up in his grasp, imprinting it on his skin. Mine. 

Armie grins at him like they have founded their own nation, a place they can both be from.

“The other present it’s ah - well not that big a deal, well, you’ll see,” Armie gestures to the much larger box, wrapped in thick cream paper. Timmy sets down the keyring on the table, eyes it as if warning it against disappearing, and slides a finger under a piece of tape. He carefully unwraps the gift and opens the box, pulling a hoodie from his alma mater out and holding it up. It is clear, at once, that it is far too large for Timmy. He pulls it on anyway, not wanting Armie to feel for a moment he missed any mark with his presents. The sleeves easily hang over and wrap back up the length of Timmy’s hands and the bottom of the sweatshirt hangs to his mid-thighs. It is soft and thick and Timmy nuzzles his nose where the hoodie meets the collar. 

“It’s, ah, big,” Armie starts.

“It’s okay, I don’t mind. I _like_ it big like this,” Timmy blurts out.

“No, it’s, I was hoping you would wear it while you’re here and then, maybe, leave it here?” Armie pauses before the next words come sprinting out. “With some other things, I - I cleared a drawer.” 

Timmy feels his eyes widen and the heat that had disappeared once he had left the stove, returns to his cheeks. He can only nod, looking down at his plate, and then slowly shifting his eyes back up to Armie. “Yeah, yeah.”

After breakfast they find themselves pushed into a couch not wide enough for two men, not that it matters as Timmy lies on top of Armie, thrusting against his thigh as he strokes Armie’s cock, flicking his thumb over the leaking head. Armie pushes up into Timmy’s hand as they each tremble and shake, fumbling their way towards climax. They lie there after, letting their heartbeats provide the rhythmic soundtrack in tune with the waves outside as they float in and out of consciousness, the emotions of yesterday, last night, today all a whirlpool around them. 

Later, Timmy lies in the bath against Armie’s chest, slick and radiating heat. Armie brushes the washcloth over Timmy’s spent cock and Timmy reflexively whimpers and pushes up into the touch. Pleasure-pain crackling crystalline edges on the borders of his consciousness. 

After the bath, after they’ve changed into clean and soft clothes, Timmy tugs something out from his luggage. A faded blue hoodie with yellow looping writing printed on the front, the borders of the letters cracked, once smooth lines uneven, the cuffs frayed, rests in his hands and he approaches Armie, like making an offering. “Would you, would you wear this while I’m here and then could I take it back with me to New York?” His voice is quiet, hesitant, the words uncertain of their path and direction.

Armie’s eyes are like warm pools and his voice as deep, “Of course.” 

When Timmy lands in New York, he gets into a Lyft but instead of going to his apartment he goes to the Rite Aid a few blocks away. He walks against the wind, whipping a frenzy around him, nagging him for having left the cold crashing waves of Malibu, his backpack hanging off his shoulders, his duffle bag hoisted up on one arm, and into the blast of heat right inside the store’s doors. He makes his way to the key copying machine and inserts first his building and then his apartment key. He walks down the stationary aisle and grabs a box of one hundred envelopes and purchases a book of stamps at the register. After paying, he sits on his duffle bag in a corner of the store and rips open the box of envelopes, fishes a pen from his backpack, and puts far too many stamps on. On his walk back along bone-chilling few blocks to his apartment, he drops the envelope in a corner mailbox, so that when he arrives at his building it will be to a home that will welcome Armie, ensuring Armie will never be a guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The world and my own personal corner of it has been a busy and (sometimes) difficult place but your comments, kudos, and tumblr messages fill me with joy. I love writing this story, these characters, this 'verse. I'm always happily surprised you are all out there reading along, much less enjoying it. Thank you.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been 9 chapters since Aj’s last self-indulgence in hurt/comfort. Reset that counter to zero! Also since I’m a fan of thanking people in these self-indulgent chapters, a huge shout out to [barthelme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barthelme/pseuds/barthelme) for helping me think through some of the emotional notes and encouraging me to keep my voice and style authentic.
> 
> cover art by chalamazed / stmonkeys

“Timmy,” Armie answers his phone, a smile already welcoming itself onto his face. 

“Uh, Armie?” An unfamiliar female voice comes over the tinny phone speaker, hardly audible over noise in the background, voices of people speaking, shouting, over each other, machines whirring and beeping. 

“Yes, this is he,” Armie responds. “And who is this?” He remains polite but really wants to demand why someone’s else’s voice, a voice that is not the familiar excited meandering one he’s used to hearing when this number calls him on his phone, is on the other end. 

“This is Pauline, I’m Timmy’s - “ the voice is soft and apologetic. 

“His sister, right,” Armie feels both comforted and more alarmed. The story of a lost phone fading into the background, his mind refusing to allow anything else to come to the fore, he feels blank, numb. “Timmy, is Timmy - “ he tries to get the words out but something feels stuck in his throat, a shovel, and it feels like the only way it can dig is down. 

“There’s been an accident,” the voice tells him, still soft, still kind. “But he’s okay, he should be okay,” the next words come in a rush and Armie feels gratitude wash over him. This is someone who knows the words _there’s been an accident_ cannot be left hanging, like overripe fruit on a tree moments from falling to the ground to rot. 

Armie's mind allows the question of what Timmy’s told her, his parents, about him, about what they are to each other. It allows him to wonder how Pauline was tasked as the one to call him. 

“Can I talk to him?” Armie asks, only halfway realizing that if he could talk to Timmy, Timmy would have called him. 

“He - he lost consciousness and they’ve taken him to get an MRI to see if there’s been a brain injury to explain why he’s not, not awake,” her voice is filled to the brim with sorrow at having to tell him. Filled to the brim and it makes Armie think of how Timmy overfilled their coffee mugs each morning they spent together. He quickly corrects his thoughts to present tense with _overfills_ and _spend._ “And we’re waiting on the toxicology results.”

“A toxicology - like a drug test?” Armie asks, confusion is laced with an edge of concern.

“_Oiu_, yes,” the voice affirms without emotion, conveying facts rather than heartbreak. 

“But - wait - what happened?” Armie feels his stomach sinking, bile rising, and his heart pounding. A disjointed arrhythmic symphony. 

And he hears what is known about Timmy driving to pick up some groceries for his mother, winding suburban roads, slick with recent rain, and snow, and a patch of black ice, and an intersection and cars that, despite squealing brakes, could not stop soon enough.

“I’m confused, that sounds like - that could have happened to anyone,” Armie can hear the edge in his voice teeter and risk toppling from concern to anger and he tries to pull it back. He cannot risk losing this voice on the line, the thinnest of threads, like a string of saliva between their mouths after they have been making out until their lips are swollen and sore, connecting him to Timmy. “Why would he be drug tested?”

He hears a sigh over the speaker of his phone and is struck by how much it resembles Timmy’s and something behind his rib cage crumbles. “Armie, you’ve known my brother for just a short time, really. And I know, I know he’s been clean the entire time you’ve known him - “ 

“Not just clean,” Armie corrects her. “He’s so committed to his sobriety.” He thinks of regular meetings, even during his stay in Los Angeles. His commitments. His relationship with Saoirse. Saoirse who would do anything to prevent Timmy from using, from relapsing. Who has done anything, Armie remembers with a pang like a blade to his gut. 

“ - yes, _now_ he is. But you didn’t know him then. The lengths he would go to - to, to hide what he was doing, the risks he would take,” Pauline tries to explain. 

But Armie’s mind is stuck, stuck on Timmy, the person whom he knows better than he’s known anyone else, the person he knows better than himself sometimes. He feels the anger rise, like the rising tide outside his windows. Pauline doesn’t know Timmy like he knows him, not now. And the past is, well, the past. It has to be, not for Timmy’s sake, but for Armie’s - otherwise he could not live the life he is living now. He clings to this belief like a life raft in the rising tide. “But I do, I do know, because he’s told me. He’s been completely honest with me about his past.”

“I know, Armie, I do, but his clean years are still outweighed by his years of using and the impact that had on our parents. This is to protect ourselves, him. Please trust me, we know him,” the softness takes on a pleading, not for permission, but to understand. 

“No - no you don’t. This is unfair - he’s worked hard, he’s changed,” Armie refuses to give her what she’s asking for without words, refuses to understand. Change must be possible, or Timmy could be hurt by being with him, and Armie could not, would never allow that. He’s already ended their relationship once to protect Timmy from hurt, he doesn’t believe he has the strength to do it again, nor can he stand to think of hurting Timmy. Change must be possible. 

“He’s made false promises before, Armie,” a layer of weariness is painted over the kindness, the pleading to understand, in her voice. 

“These aren’t false promises now. I was just with him - “ Armie insists. 

“And we were just with him before he left this evening, and with him just before so many times before this,” Pauline pushes back. 

“This is unfair.”

“If he’s clean then there’s no need to worry, all is well,” Pauline sounds weary and Armie wonders how long it had been since they received the call, how long they had been at the hospital awaiting any news, how long before they had access to Timmy’s things, to his phone. 

He feels sympathy, he does, but still, “He’s not consenting to this, he’s unconscious.”

“This is not his choice; it’s a family matter,” she responds

“It’s unfair,” Armie repeats. I am family, he wants to add, but doesn’t. Can’t. And still it hurts to be excluded like that. It hurts, but he knows it shouldn’t. He hasn’t even met Timmy’s parents and sister yet. 

“Nevertheless, the decision has been made, Armie,” she says it with warmth, as if she understands his love for her brother and how it is at war with her own history with him, with the battles she saw fought between him and his first love, drugs, and him and their parents, the carnage left, the wounds healed but the scars left behind.

“Okay, okay, whatever. I’m coming, flying there.” Armie walks over to his laptop looking up the next flight to New York. “I can be on a red-eye.” 

“Armie, he will be fine, probably back at his place by the time you get here.”

“Then I’ll see him at his place,” Armie lets the edge enter his voice now, does not care if he will fall from Pauline’s good graces by insisting on flying to see his recently injured boyfriend. He can be at Timmy’s place - he doesn’t need Pauline’s permission, her consideration of him as family or not, to be there. He has a key. 

“_D’accord_,” Pauline responds. “I’ll text you my number.”

They end their call with logistics and later Armie will look back and wonder how he remained capable of rational thought, of the tedious process of finding the last possible seat on the last possible flight that night. Because as soon as they have hung up, as soon as he has confirmed his ticket purchase, he walks to the bathroom, kneels before the toilet and empties the contents of his stomach. 

Because Armie would have thought the interminable plane ride from Los Angeles to New York would be permanently seared in his memory, like every other awful experience he’s had. But he can barely recall it. 

He never sleeps well on red-eyes and this is no exception. He doesn’t think he sleeps even a minute. He _can_ remember every detail of the seat back in front of him. And he definitely remembers the flight attendant's soft hand on his shoulder and looking around to see the plane emptied of the other passengers. He remembers grabbing his bag from the overhead compartment and the next memory he has is listening to the robotic voice of the GPS navigation directing him in his rental car to the hospital where Timmy remains, despite Pauline’s initial assurances otherwise, for something so vague as “observation.” 

He pulls into the hospital parking lot and makes his way to the front desk, hands clenched and knuckles white, waiting for resistance, argument, being told that only family is allowed, but he’s handed an adhesive visitor badge and waved through. He schools himself to walk through the corridors; he’s not in scrubs running to save a life. The elevator is so slow he nearly gets off at a lower floor to take the stairs. He reminds himself, Timmy is okay, he’s alive, he’s breathing. But his palms itch with the need to lay hands on him, touch him, make sure his perfect skin isn’t marred, there’s not a curl out of place. That the heart inside his narrow chest that is somehow large enough to hold Armie and everything he brings with him, continues to beat. 

The door to Timmy’s room is open and he stands at threshold for a moment, his small body seems smaller still for the tiny bed he occupies, his skin a barely tone or two darker than the stark white sheets tucked around him. Armie stands at the threshold of the hospital room and feels as if he is standing simultaneously at another threshold. 

He steps into the room and Timmy lifts his head and turns, his eyes widening and his arms outstretched as if to close the space between him and Armie by any means possible. Armie rushes into Timmy’s embrace and for a moment it is unclear who is comforting whom. He pushes his face into those curls and behind his ear, seeking the familiar scent beneath the antiseptic hospital smells, which _reek of piss and 409_ as the lyrics go. 

He clasps Timmy tightly to him and Timmy shoves his face into Armie’s collar bone.

“When I heard - “ Armie voices breaks, breaks like his heart crumbled at the news. “When I heard - I just kept thinking -” 

Timmy pulls back and looks at him, his eyes shiny ponds that are like a desert mirage to Armie after the last fifteen hours. “I’m fine Armie, I’m fine and I’m right here. I’m sorry I scared you.” 

Timmy kisses him and Armie feels Timmy’s aliveness pour from Timmy into him, filling him up to the brim, like mugs of coffee in bed on lazy mornings. “You don’t need to apologize,” Armie’s whisper is like a jagged piece of stained glass, red and sharp. “Never apologize for something you couldn’t prevent.” 

“You’re angry,” there’s no emotion behind it. It’s not an accusation, it’s a statement of fact. An observation. 

Armie pulls back and looks at Timmy’s face, curls greasy and matted, his eyes outlined with dark rings, his skin tinged with pallor rather than its usual healthy but pale hue, making his freckles and moles stand out more, like the constellations in the night sky, and he’s never looked more beautiful. “They drug tested you,” Armie takes care, handles this beautiful package as though he were fragile, although Armie knows he’s anything but, to not direct his anger at Timmy. His anger is Timmy-adjacent. 

Timmy shrugs one shoulder. “Yeah, it’s what they do.”

“That’s not fair; that’s, that’s, not who you are anymore,” Armie feels himself pick up the sword and shield, if Timmy won’t do it himself. 

“Armie, I’m every version of me my parents have known - this will always be a part of how they see me, how they love me.” He reaches out a single finger and brushes it from Armie’s cheekbone to his jawline, so slowly Armie can feel each follicle of coarse beard growth bend to the pressure and snap back up in the wake of the finger’s journey. 

Armie leans in and captures Timmy’s lips in a kiss, it starts off gently, heeding the concerns of Timmy’s injuries, minor though they are, but quickly turns frantic. The emotions kept numb until now simmering until they’re a rolling boil at the surface, hands clasping at a too thin hospital gown and then roughly sliding between the open back to grasp at soft skin that’s still here, still whole, still his. 

Timmy whimpers into his mouth and pulls back enough to murmur, “I’ve missed you.”

“Me too, me too, god, I - “ Armie returns before thin fingers dig into his sweater pulling him back into a searing kiss. Armie carefully lowers himself to Timmy’s bed and as they lie there, side by side, in that narrow hospital bed, in a room smelling of piss and 409, and Armie thinks there is no place he would rather be. 

Armie later meets Timmy’s parents, Nicole and Marc, and it is clear where Timmy gets his good looks. If Timmy ages anything like them, Armie thinks he will be very lucky indeed. He being Armie, to be clear. It doesn’t even occur to him to consider how very far in the future he is imagining them. Imagining them, together, still. It simply presents itself as fact. And fact it will absolutely turn out to be true, both Timmy aging with grace and beauty and his remaining Armie’s to admire and wonder how he managed to to be so lucky.

Nicole, petite and soft-spoken, which, as Armie learns, is not to be confused with mild, corners him in the cafeteria as they are both getting the dark sludge being sold as coffee. “I understand you were upset that we asked them to run a toxicology panel,” she does not avoid the topic or dress it up with frills and ribbons and Armie appreciates this. 

“I didn’t mean for Pauline to tell you,” he begins. She waves at the air between them as if to say _no matter._ They are a family where everything is out in the open, so different from his own is, or, he considers his father, have been. And perhaps Timmy’s journey forced them to this brutal and beautiful honesty. He will never know, as he realizes, he will never know what it was like to witness Timmy in the thrall of his addiction. 

Nicole tells him, however. “Timmy is, has always been, a shiny good-luck penny that draws people to him with gleaming promise. Drugs - drugs changed that. You don’t, you can’t know what he was like before. He’s still a penny but duller, ever so slightly. But duller nonetheless. And, as parents, you’re left wondering why you can’t shine that penny back to its previous luster. He still shines but the dullness remains - and perhaps it's just in our minds, in our memories. Marc works at it but the risk sometimes feels too much for him. Most of the time it’s fine but in moments like these the memories, the reminders, of that dullness where there had been shine and promise are too vibrant. Timmy has done a remarkable job in recovery but he will always be in recovery. And we’re in recovery too, and we will always be in recovery.” 

Armie nods and wraps her in a hug, he’s no good with words, his family doesn’t, or didn’t, talk, but the Flender-Chalamets seem like a hugging family and he’s always been good with action. He’s right about the hugging, Nicole hugs him back with a fierce strength that belies her petite frame and Armie is given a glimpse of another family resemblance. 

Armie drives Timmy back to his apartment in the city. He glances at him from the driver’s seat, Timmy’s head resting against the window as he watches the landscape shift from snow covered trees to grey slushy sidewalks. He glances at him and he feels his breath momentarily stolen and his eyes prick with sudden tears. He wants to bundle him up and whisk him away to the beach house in Malibu and never let the world touch him again. He wants to make love to him. He wants Timmy to fuck him so hard he will be permamently imprinted by the stretch from his cock and marked by his release. He wants to take him to the middle of Times Square and scream at the top of his lungs how fucking proud he is of him. 

Armie insists that Timmy rest on the couch. “Armie, I was barely scratched. I’m not in any pain. let me help!” “You think I’m making you rest on the couch for you? No, this is for me. Lie down and watch _Brooklyn Nine Nine._” He knows Timmy’s seen every episode of _Brooklyn Nine Nine_ so many times he has them memorized and it is the only show he can fall asleep to. 

He makes him rest on the couch for the same reason he plans to stay with Timmy rather than the company apartment. Timmy may not need it, but Armie does. 

Armie spends the time Timmy is resting turning the apartment from one with the air of a place that’s sat unopened and stale for several weeks to one that’s dusted and with a freshly made bed. He even opens the windows a crack to change the air, despite the bitter chill outside. He closes them and leaves a note before he leaves to get groceries. He doesn’t want Timmy to wake up chilly and alone and he doesn’t want to interrogate that wish any further. There have been enough emotions today, overflowing coffee mugs of them, and Armie hasn’t slept in at least thirty-six hours. 

When Armie returns to the apartment, his arms lined with canvas grocery bags, Timmy is staring at the open dishwasher. 

“What’s up?” Armie asks as he places the bags on the counter, stamps his boots on the mat by the door, and sheds his coat. 

“The way it’s loaded,” Timmy responds, not moving his gaze from the dishwasher. 

“That’s now I had told you to load it.” Armie had been curious if Timmy had kept using his dishwasher, and he had, but now that curiosity stretches like a cat to extend to questions about whether he ceased heeding Armie’s advice how to actually use the dishwasher. Timmy speaks before Armie can get his thoughts stuck on their time apart.

“I know but I didn’t listen so I’ve never seen it this way,” Timmy admits. 

“Yeah?” Armie grins at him, at his admission of not really listening to his advice, admittedly unsolicited, even during a time when all they had were words between them. 

“Yeah. It really makes sense,” Timmy nods, still not shifting his gaze.

Armie means to say, “I know” as he reaches into the grocery bags to grab ice cream that is probably in no danger of melting considering the temperature outside. He means to say, “I know” but he says “I love you.” 

Timmy turns and grins at him and starts to unload the dishwasher. Armie’s hands, wrapped around the pint of ice cream, are cold, but his heart has never felt more full of warmth. The parts that had crumbled, made whole once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics referenced (about hospitals reeking of piss and 409) are from _What Sarah Said_ by Deathcab for Cutie. That entire album is A+


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we have some more low key hurt/comfort punctuated with smut. 
> 
> cover art by chalamazed / stmonkeys

Timmy gives Armie three weeks. Three weeks of understanding that his boyfriend got a telephone call with a stranger on the other end and got on a plane and to his hospital bedside. Three weeks of understanding that Armie argued with Timmy’s family about drug testing him, without having met them before, without knowing that would bring Armie closer to the warm love, burning ever brighter, his family circles around than staying quiet ever could. Three weeks of being treated like a delicate glass figurine. 

As soon as Timmy was discharged from the hospital, Armie suggested he fly them both back to Los Angeles, to the beach, which made Timmy feel fragile and flushed like a consumption patient at the turn of the last century being advised to take the sea air. Timmy declined, using the excuse he didn’t feel up for travel.

So maybe some of this is his fault. He could have said he preferred to stay in NYC, instead of resting on his injury as an excuse. He wonders now if he gave Armie the impression his injuries were worse than they were, if he somehow caused this.

But he understands, he does. Years of scaring his parents have made him sensitive to it. So he gives him three weeks. 

Three weeks of Armie trying to be subtle about inspecting Timmy’s body, tracing each bruise and scrape with his fingers with the touch he might use to trace lines in the sand. Three weeks of Armie shaving twice a day to avoid putting any more redness, irritation, injury onto Timmy’s skin. Three weeks of Timmy waking in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and hearing Armie’s worried voice calling out to ask if he’s okay. Three weeks of falling back to sleep knowing that Armie's cautious eyes are watching the rise and fall of his chest, needing evidence, needing proof. Needing Timmy to be okay. 

And Timmy wants, wants in a way that makes his stomach ache with it, wants the lip-biting, sheets clutching, headboard banging sex they had. Wants the lightheartedness they had. Wants the feeling of being equal. Not the worried after and the worrier they have become. 

Timmy wants to go for a run. He wants to feel the wind stinging his cheeks, wants to feel the icy hot feeling of breaking into a sweat that then turns to frost on the surface of his fleece jacket, and wants to feel the burning in his legs and lungs as he pushes himself up a hill. 

The aches from the accident faded after a few days of alternating doses of ibuprofen and acetaminophen. The bruises are faded to a sickly yellow. The redness of scrapes and scratches are a light pink. 

Timmy has been understanding but after three weeks he wants, wants a return to normalcy. And yet.

And yet, like finding his old stuffed animals at his parents’ house, he wants to hug close the comfort he no longer needs. Wants to hug Armie’s concern close to him, to measure his love in worry. It feels familiar. It feels like years when worry was the only expression of love he received. And it puts him off-balance in a way that feels like a knife’s edge, and he’s not in danger of slipping but his feet are beginning to hurt from holding himself steady. He is practiced in reaching out for help. But he is a newcomer to having a boyfriend - the word still lights a fluttery thing on fire just below his rib cage - and to how to ask for help when it’s not a matter of relapse, of life and death. 

So he feels pulled between Armie’s caring attention and a yearning for how they had been before a patch of ice and squealing brakes and skidding and spinning. Before Armie, anxious and angry, boarded a plane to be by his side. He feels pulled like a rubber band, and brittle from the experience, until he snaps. 

He snaps but he doesn’t intend to. He snaps but had intended to talk about this, like an adult, closing the ten year gap between them, showing with his words and how he wields them that he is to be trusted. But he snaps. And as is the nature of snapping, he doesn’t plan for it. It happens.

It happens as they lie on Timmy’s bed, surrounded by a ring of blankets and pillows. Armie is kissing him, his tongue lightly tracing Timmy’s lips but exploring no further. Armie lies on his side, keeping his weight off of Timmy, his hands ghosting over Timmy’s skin, which is screaming out with want from every pore. He cups the back of Armie’s head, weaving his fingers into his hair, trying to shove his body under Armie’s, longing to feel the weight of him pressed against him, longing to strain just a bit to breathe beneath him. And Armie keeps inching away. Refusing, it feels, to give Timmy what he wants, what he is asking for so clearly. 

Timmy pulls away from their kiss and three weeks of being treated as more fragile than he is, of being treated like a patient not a boyfriend, comes slamming against the inside of his chest. Timmy pulls away from their kiss, his eyes snap open and immediately narrow, he feels his cheeks ablaze, and, “Goddamnit, Armie” tumbles from his mouth. His mouth, which he then tries to slam against Armie’s with the same force as all his emotions. His lips touch Armie’s, still soft and warm, for a moment before Armie pulls away, brows furrowed. “Timmy, what happened? Did I,” he swallows and brushes his thumb across Timmy’s cheekbone where an abrasion has long since faded, “Did I hurt you?”

“No!” Timmy shouts and rolls away, slamming his head back against his pillow. “I wish you fucking would though!”

Armie pushes himself up to sit and tugs at his hair and it looks like he’s been freshly fucked and that makes the want burn hotter inside Timmy. “You want me to...hurt you?”

And Timmy feels a pang inside at the confused look on Armie’s face, the struggle to understand why Timmy would want Armie to hurt him written in clear bold font in his eyes and the set of his mouth. He shoves that pang away and balls his hands into fists. “Not - not hurt, but, like, touch me like you’re not afraid of hurting me,” Timmy continues to shout. He rolls to his side and sits on the edge of the bed, “Touch me like you used to.” Tears, unexpected guests, prick the corners of his eyes and leave hot trails in their journey down his cheeks. He wipes them away with the back of his hand, furious at their betrayal of him, of his anger. 

He feels Armie shift and move behind him and he swears he feels the heat from his palm as it hovers over his back, a cackle of a current between his skin and Armie’s. He wants to shove himself back against Armie’s hand, to force the touch. He holds himself back with restraint not yet summoned tonight. He holds himself back with the image of bashing Armie’s face with his skull. He holds himself back not only with the image of Armie, lip swollen and perhaps bloody from being caught between bone and teeth, but also, and worse, Armie’s reaction to Timmy hitting his head again. Armie’s reaction to being the immovable object against which Timmy hits his head. And sudden remorse slip slides like a tear from Timmy’s jaw, down the side of his neck, and the remorse continues into his chest and stomach, where it rests, like a heavy and jagged thing, alongside its twin, guilt. 

Guilt at being upset at Armie for caring. Guilt at letting his emotions heat up until they’re now at a thrumming boil just under the surface of his skin. And he hates it, he hates this. He hates himself in this moment. He hates and he wants. He hates himself and he wants Armie and there’s an all of sudden coldness that wraps itself around him, his emotions cracking at the sudden shift. He feels cold at the absence of Armie’s touch, at the fear that he may never have the warmth of his touch, of his body pressed against his, again. If Armie is half as disgusted with Timmy as Timmy is with himself. He would understand. He would. 

He would run out into the cold dark night and run until his feet bled and his heart was numb but he would understand. 

He feels the bed dip as Armie comes to sit beside him, feels the press of his arm, where it holds him up, against his back and feels the tentative touch of a tissue blot at the tears streaming down his cheeks, and another soft touch against his neck. And “Timmy,” soft and warm against his curls. 

At that gentle and tender murmur of his name, all of Timmy’s emotions from the past three weeks bubble up and over like hot tears soaking Armie’s shirt. The security of being loved and cared for wracks his frame, the frustration of being treated like a patient, like someone more fragile than the survivor he is, topples him into Armie’s embrace, the patience of understanding Armie’s fear not yet receded twists his fingers into the back of Armie’s shirt. This is not an elegant cry with tears glistening in his eyes, it is a full-body, snotty nose dripping, puffy eyes, reddened cheeks sob that worsens the more he tries to control it, like fighting quicksand. 

As his sobs eventually subside, Timmy becomes aware of the warmth of Armie’s palm through his shirt, making soothing circles on his back, and deep murmur of his voice as he repeats Timmy’s name over and over until it no longer makes sense and the syllables curl around themselves. Timmy pulls back with a hiccup and surveys the mess he made of Armie’s shirt, lays his hand on Armie’s chest in the wet spot left behind by tears and snot. 

Armie tilts the tissue box towards Timmy, whose cheeks flush hotter as he grabs a handful and tries to clean up his face. He grabs some more and tries to blot at Armie’s chest, avoiding eye contact all the while. Armie hand covers Timmy’s, stopping his movements and his other comes to Timmy’s forehead to brush away wet curls plastered to his skin. Timmy slowly raises his eyes to Armie’s and he hiccups again, the indignities of the evening refusing to end with his tears. 

“Armie - “ he interrupts himself with another hiccup, “I’m so - “

“Woah,” Armie cuts him off, presses his index finger against Timmy’s lips. “Don’t - don’t ever apologize for having feelings.” Timmy nods rapidly. “Just, I need to know, what, what the fuck was that?” The corners of Timmy’s mouth lift slightly, a smile beginning to edge its way through the hiccups and the stuffed nose, and the puffy eyes. “Whatever I did, just tell me so I can, like, never do it again.”

Timmy’s hands fly up to grasp Armie’s biceps. “Oh no, Armie, you didn’t - you didn’t do anything. It was me. I was trying to be patient, I was. I just need, um, more patience.” 

“Patient?” Armie’s eyebrows pull together and the corners of his eyes turn down. “I don’t understand?”

“You’ve so - _so_ good to me, taking care of me,” Timmy begins and Armie’s head tilts, his forehead wrinkles. “I was just, I was starting to feel, a little, um, like you think I’m more fragile than I am?” 

“Fragile?” Armie echoes. 

“It’s been three weeks, Armie, and, and it feels like, you’re treating me like I was just discharged from the hospital or, like, I was more injured than I was?” Timmy twists his fingers together and bites his lip between his teeth. “And I know you were, you are, worried about me… I’m sorry I should be more patient.” 

“Oh,” Armie’s voice breaks a little and Timmy feels a part of his heart break along with it. “Timmy, I’m sorry. I thought I was - never mind. It doesn’t matter. I didn’t mean to make you feel like, like that.” 

“I know you didn’t,” Timmy places his hand over Armie’s forehead, trying to smooth away the ripples of concern and worry, more worry, there. He brings his other hand to Armie’s face, holding it with both, cradling his jaw, resting his thumbs at the corners of his mouth, trying to gently, subtly, drag them up. “Let’s - can we just not dwell more on this?” Exhaustion has washed over him and all the crying has left him wrung out and empty. “Tonight at least?” 

Timmy stifles a yawn and the words Armie was about to speak die on his lips. “Of course.” 

He gets up and goes to the kitchen, returning with two water glasses. Timmy takes a grateful sip, trying to replenish what the tears took from him. And they lie back down, back to the start, but this time Armie holds Timmy firmly, tightly, like he’s made of strong stuff, and Timmy nuzzles his face into the soft spot above his armpit. Sometime in the night, Timmy shifts and settles face down, limbs stretched in every direction, in the center of the bed, Armie’s tall frame curves around him, and the bed beneath them recognizes their usual positions and cradles them. 

Timmy wakes up to the sound of screaming before realizing it's his voice bouncing off the walls of the studio apartment. 

The sound of his voice screaming is echoed by Armie’s voice, hoarse and deep, calling his name over and over. 

“Armie,” he responds, reaching out into the dark until he is wrapped in a strong arm, pulled to Armie’s chest, as the other reaches around until the bedside light is flicked on. They both blink against the sudden brightness. “Armie,” he repeats.

“You were having a nightmare,” Armie’s voice sounds like shushing against Timmy’s curls. Timmy feels his body relax against Armie’s. 

He nods and murmurs into that broad chest, “I was in the car and it was spinning around and around and around and somehow I knew that you were in the car that I hit and you were injured. I had injured you.”

“You’re okay, Timmy, you’re safe. I’m okay, I’m right here.” Timmy gazes up and Armie turns his face to the side. 

He reaches up and grabs Armie’s jaw, turning his face back towards him. “What - “ he starts as he sees a red mark, like an accusation, forming and deepening on Armie’s cheekbone. 

Armie wrests his head from Timmy’s grasp. “It’s, it’s nothing,” he assures him. Timmy’s expression must have revealed his disbelief. “I was trying to wake you and, well, you smacked me.” Timmy inhales sharply. “Timmy, it was an accident.” Hearing his own words, the memory of Timmy’s nightmare clearly still fresh in his mind, he winces. “You didn’t mean to. I should have stayed out of your way.” 

He cups Timmy’s face, mirroring Timmy’s own gesture from moments before, holding his gaze as if to peer through those windows to assess any damage caused by the nightmare, by the growing realization that Timmy’s okayness might be more shaky than he had thought, by the horror of having hurt Armie. Timmy finds his racing heart slowing as he focuses on the pool blue, warming him like sunbathing, calming him like gently rolling waves. When his breathing slows to its regular steady rhythm, Armie reaches over to grab Timmy’s empty water glass, and walks to the kitchen. 

Timmy hears the opening and closing of the refrigerator and water pouring. “There’s an - an ice pack in the freezer,” he calls out and it sounds like an apology. He hears the _snick_ of the freezer door being opened and rummaging. “It’s, uh, behind the ice cube trays.”

“Found it.” Armie returns to the bed, glass of water in one hand, the other pressing the ice pack, wrapped in a dish towel to his cheek. 

Timmy feels as if his heart is held in place by a delicate thread, constantly in danger of it being severed and dropping like heavy weight from his chest into his abdomen. The sense of being out of control, of injuring Armie - without intending to, always without intending to, but he’s hurt nonetheless and by Timmy’s hand both in his sleep and in this too brightly lit reality - hovers like an open scissors over that thread. He pulls his lip between his teeth and pushes himself up so his back is resting against the headboard. He accepts the glass of water from Armie, who lies down beside Timmy and looks up at him. Timmy drinks half the water quickly, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, as he sets the glass beside him. He looks down at Armie, hoping to recapture the serenity washing over his body he felt gazing into his eyes moments ago. 

Armie places his hand on Timmy’s knee, where it is pulled up to his chest, the heel of his palm resting above his knee and his fingers easily find a home on the top of his shin. “Still can’t shake that out of control spinning feeling, huh?” 

Timmy focuses on the heat from Armie’s hand, the weight of it on his skin, the reassurance that they’re both still here, that the greatest injury caused tonight was not a car accident, was not even an accidental smack of skin against skin, but rather his insistence earlier that he did not need what Armie was, wordlessly, offering him. “How did you know?” 

Armie shrugs his shoulders as best he can while lying down. “I’ve been in car accidents before.”

Timmy rests his hand on top of Armie’s, like a too-small blanket, he can’t cover it entirely, the tanned and hairy skin caught between Timmy’s pale skin, like slices of white bread. “I didn’t realize…”

“I know, it’s okay,” Armie stops him before he can apologize again. “I just wanted to give you the sense that you, your world, was in control.” He shrugs again and Timmy hunches over and presses his lips to where their fingers are intertwined. 

“It was like no matter what I did, I couldn’t get the car to stop. It’s, it’s like one of those driving arcade games before you put coins in - you know, you can move the wheel and step on the pedals but it does nothing,” Timmy whispers. “And then tonight… and nothing I could do would stop my stupid crying and, and I hurt you.” He edges his gaze to Armie’s eyes for a moment before dropping his face back down to his knee. 

Armie slides his hand out from between Timmy’s hand and his knee and rolls over on his stomach, resting his cheek on the ice pack. “I think - you want to feel in control?”

Timmy nods and then realizes Armie can’t see him. “Yessss,” he draws out the word, uncertain where Armie is heading but not at all fearful to follow him. 

Armie spreads his legs and shifts around on the bed. “Then take control, Timmy,” his voice is hoarse. “Fuck me.” 

Timmy’s cheeks flush at the sound that escapes his mouth, at the way his cock immediately begins to harden, at the sudden journey of his hand from by his side to palming himself. The words sink in, settle, make themselves at home, and Timmy runs his finger tips along the waistband of Armie’s pants, his lips following the path his fingertips forged as he presses soft, wet kisses along the small of his back, the dimples on either side, trailing up up up, the tip of his tongue tracing ever bump and curve of Armie’s spine. He lies down next to Armie and captures his lips with his own, licking his lips and into his mouth, running his tongue along those pointy canines that bracket his smile. 

He slips his hand under Armie’s waistband and Armie pulls back from the kiss, standing quickly to shed his clothes, a slow and sly smile inching its way onto his face, before slithering back onto the bed, where Timmy lies naked. Timmy lies naked, stroking his cock with feather light touches, teasing his balls, gazing at Armie, who returns his heated stare. 

Armie drops back down on the bed, turning over on his stomach, spreading his legs again, rutting lightly against the mattress. It takes a moment before Timmy realizes he is watching, mouth partially open, the gentle movement of globes of Armie’s ass as his hips continue to thrust into the bed. He kneels between Armie’s legs as if in prayer, and rests his hands there, feeling the clench and release, clench and release, his mouth pooling with saliva. 

He leans forward, parting Armie’s ass, feeling more and more in control, back in his skin, truly for the first time in three weeks. He leans forward and lets the saliva spill from his mouth, wetting Armie’s hole and matting the hairs framing it. Traces his finger in a circle through the spit and feels his dick twitch at Armie’s groan, a call and response. 

He presses the tip of his finger in, barely, watching as Armie’s hole flutters around it. Bends forward and places kitten licks around the rim, as Armie lets, “Fuck, Timmy,” spill from his lips. It sounds joyful. 

Timmy leans down further and, when Armie’s hole flutters again, letting his tongue take the place of his finger, pushing in. Armie’s scent, his flesh surrounds Timmy, as he settles on his stomach, fucking into Armie with his tongue. Armie’s hand slides back, covering Timmy’s in silent offer to hold himself open. Timmy uses his free hand to knead at the soft, smooth skin between Armie’s balls and his ass, sliding one finger in, deeper than his tongue, beside it, can reach. Armie releases a litany of curses as he rocks back and forth. Timmy knows that in whatever direction Armie thrusts, that spot is being massaged, that spot like a bright burning star that feels like spinning, that feels like he’s going to shatter into a million pieces. He adds a second finger.

Armie is up on his knees pushing himself back against Timmy’s face, against his hand, pushing himself into Timmy’s touch, and his cock is hard and dripping onto the bed beneath them. Sounds, noises, broken half-words, bitten off curses, continue to pour from his lips until, “Tim-timmy, yes, fuck, Timmy, fuck me, please, please, fuck, fuck, fuck me.” 

Timmy pulls his face away, more gently pulls his fingers from inside Armie. Wipes his face and hand on a corner of the bedsheet and reaches for the lube. He slicks himself, Armie’s hole is already pink, fluttering around ghost fingers, and shiny with spit. Timmy places his hand, sticky with lube, with his saliva, on Armie’s hip, curling his fingers around the bone that protrudes slightly there. “Turn over,” his voice is hoarse and sounds strange to his ears, but control, the sense of control is there. Something tightly coiled in his belly urges him to sink quickly and deeply into Armie and chase his own release but he is in control, Armie’s body, his pleasure, they’re in Timmy’s hands and a feeling in his chest wars with the one in his gut and wins. He is in control.

Timmy looks into Armie’s eyes and lily pad green meets deep pool blue. He holds the head of his cock at Armie’s entrance, feeling the heat, the wrinkled flesh there, his precome leaking, mingling, mixing with his spit. He presses the head in, holding Armie open at the widest point, knowing how all those nerve endings are firing jolts along Armie’s skin. He pushes in slowly, the tension clear as he bites his lip and drops his forehead to Armie’s, as sweat beads in the space between Armie’s eyebrows. As they both hold back, control, the urge to hurtle ever forward. They take their time, Timmy makes sure they take their time. Pressing in closer and closer until he’s firmly seated inside Armie, Armie’s skin tickling his balls. Armie’s thick thighs wrapped around Timmy’s narrow hips, his hands wrapped around his biceps, his fingers pulsing an unconscious rhythm, a silent request for Timmy to move. 

Timmy thrusts and closes his hand around Armie’s cock, his touch feather light, he knows it’s not enough. He presses against that shiny sparkling spot inside Armie, again and again, and mouths unspoken pleas to some god into Armie’s neck. Until Armie is clenching around him, spilling between them, pulling him close. Armie’s orgasm settles like stardust around them and Timmy moves to pull out but Armie keeps him in place, all limbs wrapped around him, in his eyes a plea to come inside him, mark him, leave a piece of himself there. As Timmy moves again, Armie’s eyes shut against the feeling of oversensitivity, and as Timmy cries out his pleasure, Armie’s dick twitches and more come dribbles out onto his stomach. 

Timmy lies back, feeling truly exhausted for the first time in weeks, so different from the vague lethargy that had colored his days. Feels wrung out, like he poured every last remnant he had of himself into Armie, gave all of himself to him. Because he is his; he is Armie’s. 

The bed sheets are damp with sweat, come, and condensation from the long-melted ice pack but they find themselves a spot to press their bodies together, eyes closed, hearts beating as though in harmony. 

“Is that what you were doing these last three weeks?” Timmy raises his head in a failed effort to look at Armie. Armie’s eyes are closed and Timmy lets his head drop back down to his chest. 

“Hmm?” Armie asks.

“Trying to make me feel like everything was in control,” Timmy clarifies.

Armie shrugs the shoulder Timmy is resting beneath, his head moving up and down like he is riding an ocean wave. “You lost control of your car, you lost consciousness, you were… I figured you might freak out at some point. I wanted, I wanted you to avoid that if possible.” He punctuates this with a weak laugh. 

“You don’t - you know you have to do things for me. That’s not your job - there is no job here. You know that right?” Timmy’s voice is sharper, less lazy, less sleep-soft. 

“I don’t know…I’m used to, to doing things for people. To show them I care,” Armie’s voice is deep and echoey and tinged with that dull unpolished lapis lazuli.

“I know you care,” Timmy’s chest lights up with the certainty of it, his fingers trail down to Armie’s hole, run around the slightly puffy edge, soaking the tips with the come that continues to leak out, despite Timmy’s gentle cleaning up with a warm washcloth before he fell back into bed. 

“I don’t know how else to do it,” Armie admits and Timmy feels his neck twist as he turns his head away from Timmy’s, to look over the edge of the mattress. 

“I’ve never done this before, Armie,” Timmy whispers into his skin. 

“Neither have I,” Armie whispers into the dark room. 

“Then, then we’ll figure it out,” Timmy presses his face into the soft spot there. 

Armie rocks his head back and he bows it over Timmy’s curls, like a prayer, “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the time after they got back together and now, our boys got tested for STI's. I just didn't feel like writing about it. But, be like our boys and engage in safer sex practices if you're having sex with a partner or partners.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter pokes fun at families that exchange Valentine’s Day presents. Just know that I come from such a family - although the gifts were always odd and fairly practical (a thesaurus one year, a basketball another year) and stopped once I moved out after high school. The joking is all in good fun. 
> 
> This was going to be one chapter and then it got away from me a bit. So this is the first part of a two part arc.

**February 2022**

Armie doesn’t blame Pauline, not entirely. But, when he stops to think about the events and how they unfolded, he can’t help but consider her to be the one to flick her finger against the first domino, tumbling the whole lot. 

If he digs deeper back in time, he guesses some of the blame can be placed at the feet of Marc and Nicole. After all, he wonders (he has a lot of time to think about this), what family gives each other presents for Valentine’s Day? 

But there is no doubt in his mind that everything started with Pauline’s Valentine’s Day present to Timmy. To both of them, really. Armie has been surprised with the swiftness and ease with which he’s been folded into the Flender-Chalamet family. Into their love that seems easy at first glance but which Armie knows they have worked at, bit by bit, climbing a mountain, putting in the work, to now be able to enjoy the vistas from the summit.

It is the present that starts the whole thing, in Armie’s mind. The whole thing being their first fight.

(Armie doesn’t count when they broke up, when he ended things. He can’t. After all, Timmy didn’t fight back then. And the more Armie gets to know Timmy, peeling back layer after layer, the more he cannot think about that, what that meant, what it meant Armie did to him, to them, without having to swallow around something that feels like a shovel in his throat.)

Timmy bursts through the front door to the studio apartment sometime in early February, a package in his arms, wrapped in brown paper and decorated with foreign stamps. His curls pushed down with a beanie, a patch of frost on his back quickly melting in the heat of the building, the apartment, his own body, one earbud still in his ear, the tinny sounds of his music dripping from the one dangling loose. Armie stands in the galley kitchen watching as Timmy attempts to toe off his sneakers and take off his hat, all while balancing the package in his hands. The cord of his headphones gets wrapped around his wrist and when he tries to place the hat on one of the hooks by the door, the earbud in his ear gets yanked out. He turns, eyes wide and mouth slightly open, at the sound of Armie’s chuckle. 

“Need some help?” Armie speaks around his laughter. 

Timmy glances down at himself and back up at Armie, “Yeah, probably.” He shrugs a shoulder and laughs and Armie feels like the pale winter sun is warming up the drafty apartment with her golden rays.

Armie relieves Timmy of the package in his hands, startled by the weight of it. “What’s this?” 

Timmy glances into the kitchen as he unwraps the headphones from around his body and unzips his fleece jacket. “From Pauline,” he responds, hanging his jacket on a hanger that hangs from one of the hooks. Armie had insisted after realizing that Timmy was hanging up his sweat-soaked running jacket in the closet after every run. 

“Yeah, I can see that,” Armie runs his finger over the return address, the stamps. “What is it?”

Timmy shrugs and moves into the kitchen, grabbing a water glass out of the cabinet and the water pitcher from the fridge. He pours himself a glass and drinks it quickly and Armie is momentarily distracted by the movement of his neck, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. “Probably a Valentine’s gift.”

Armie feels his eyebrows shoot up and his eyes widen. He hasn’t forgotten Valentine’s Day - he has made reservations at that Italian place by the office, has placed an order for flowers, and intends to pick up some sparkling apple cider, and spring for some fancy crystal flutes, just because he wants their first toast on their first Valentine’s Day to be in proper stemware. He also wants to be able to run his wet finger around the rim of the glass and make that noise that sounds like a Tibetan singing bowl, or an MRI machine, depending on whose ears it is landing on. He would have never guessed he was a romantic, but he’s never had the opportunity to be and now look at him - outfit for dinner already planned, haircut scheduled for the day before - full-blown-heart-on-his-sleeve-incurable romantic. 

Years from now they will be able to laugh at the cancelled plans and how their first Valentine’s Day was spent in an argument rather than with flowers, and dinner, and bubbly. They will have a lifetime to celebrate Valentine’s Day and a lifetime to laugh about their first fight. And Armie will always secretly blame Pauline. 

He hadn’t forgotten Valentine’s Day but he had never heard of a family exchanging gifts for the holiday meant for lovers. Certainly in his own childhood home, where expressions of love were a precious and rare thing, it wasn’t a tradition. 

But Timmy states the fact of the present’s existence without explanation, without apology, without any embarrassment. As if it’s a fact of his life that families sit together to exchange chocolates and cards. As if it’s a fact of his life that there is enough love between all of them to celebrate it. And Armie feels a smile itch at the corners of his mouth and eyes. He imagines Timmy as a child, probably taking one bite out of each chocolate in the box to figure out which was what. He feels his mouth curve up at the corners and his eyes begin to crinkle. 

Timmy grabs a knife from the drawer and slides it under the packing tape. He removes the brown paper and folds it, before handing it to Armie to place in the recycling. Armie’s chest warms at the words unspoken between them, at the dance they do in the tiny kitchen.

Timmy lifts the lid of the box and he peers inside. “Yes,” he breathes out. “She remembered.” Armie crowds in behind him, the narrow galley barely wide enough to accommodate both of them. He peers into the box and sees a number of jars nestled in shredded paper. 

“What are those?” Armie asks, inhaling behind Timmy’s ear, not minding the sweat, not minding the damp curl tucked there. 

“Jams,” Timmy responds, with the same matter-of-fact tone that announced a Valentine’s Day present from his older sister. 

“Jams? What could be so - why is she sending you jam?” 

“Whaaaat?” Timmy draws the word out. “No, these are like the best jams ever. They make them at a little shop nearby where she lives. I basically live off of jam, butter, and baguettes whenever I visit her.” 

“It’s really that much better than, like, Smuckers?” Armie lists the first jam that comes to mind, the one that sits in Timmy’s refrigerator, the one he’s seen Timmy eat by the spoonful, alternating it with scoops of peanut butter, after a particularly long run, and is cut off by a gasp from Timmy. 

“That is jelly and it is not the same,” his eyes are wide and he runs his hand through his sweat-damp curls. “Like...at all.”

“Really?” Armie leans back against the counter, crosses his arms, and raises one eyebrow. In the after-math, Armie will maintain that he never doubted the superiority of the French jam. It was all meant to be a bit of fun. “Like I would be able to tell the difference if we did, uh, like a taste test?” 

Timmy turns his back on the jams to face Armie. He pulls his sleeves down over his hands and looks up at Armie. His eyes are bright, lily covered ponds reflecting sunlight, his crooked lips framing crooked teeth in a perfect smile, “A test taste?”

Armie tries to bite back his smile and slips a hand under his t-shirt to scratch his belly. “Yeah, why not?” 

Somehow Timmy manages to smile with his whole body as he spins on the ball of his socked foot and surveys the box of jams again. “We’ll have to get a baguette, we can’t have the taste of the bread confounding the results,” he addresses the box on the counter, pulling again at the sleeves of his shirt. He glances over his shoulder, “I need to buy bread,” he informs Armie before turning his attention back and running his fingers over the jars and their cheerful red and white tops. Slides his fingertip over the looping script lettering on white labels. 

Armie grabs him by the shoulders and guides him out of the kitchen. He bends over and whispers, “How about you shower first, Dr. Chalamet?”

“Doctor?” Timmy glances over his shoulder without stopping, trusting Armie to guide him.

Armie bites his lip between his teeth and shrugs. “Because you were, like, designing a scientific experiment, or whatever.”

Timmy lets a breathless giggle escape, “Dr. Chalamet, I like that.” 

“Go, scrub in, Doc,” Armie swats Timmy’s ass as Timmy shrieks and slides on the parquet floor towards the bathroom and Armie allows himself to drop onto the bed, still in his pajamas. 

Armie is woken up by icicles walking up both sides of his body, under his shirt. “What the - ?” A giggle gives Timmy away.

“Armie,” he whispers between giggles. “Are you ready for your taste test?” 

Armie cracks one eye open, squints at the bright sunshine of Timmy’s smile. “I thought you needed to get the perfect bread?” He allows his open eye to join his closed on and rolls over on his stomach. 

Timmy lies on top of him and Armie can feel the chill of clothes recently outdoors seep through his pajamas, hitting his skin, and Timmy’s breath is hot and damp against his neck. A shiver like a lightning strike runs down his spine at the dueling sensations. “I ran out to the store while you were, um, sleeping. Napping?” 

Armie rolls over, tossing Timmy off his back, climbs on top of him and kisses him roughly on his collarbone, trails kisses up that impossibly long column, to his ear, nips at his earlobe, and whispers, “I was resting my eyes.” 

The noise that comes out of Timmy is all at once a startling high-pitched snort that introduces a laugh and Armie has never heard anything more beautiful. “I didn’t realize resting your eyes also included snoring.” 

“I,” Armie grabs one of Timmy’s wrists. “Do,” he lifts it and pins it above his head. “Not,” he grabs the other wrist. “Snore,” pins that wrist on top of the other one and holds them both in one hand. “But you - you snort,” he wriggles the fingers of his free hand just above Timmy’s ribs. “Care for a demonstration...doctor?” 

Timmy bucks his hips and twists his wrists, and something stirs in Armie, like a slotting into place, at seeing Timmy pinned down like this, at Armie’s mercy. Laughter dances through Timmy’s eyes and across his face, before his eyes flutter shut, casting long shadows on his cheekbones. Giving in seems to wash a peace over his body. Armie bends down and licks Timmy’s lips, which part slightly, like a conditioned response. Armie pulls back and Timmy’s eyes flutter open. “But seriously, I got bread. You wanna do this?” 

Armie sits back on the tops of Timmy’s thighs and releases his wrists. He gestures toward the kitchen, “Please commence the experiment, doctor.” 

Armie settles against the headboard of the bed and reaches over to the bedside table, edges soft and worn from time, for the mug of coffee Timmy had brought him. He cradles the hot mug between large hands and glances up as Timmy walks from the kitchen through the dining area to the bed. 

“No, no, close your eyes,” Timmy chews on the corner of his mouth as he balances a plate in his hands.

Armie takes a final sip of the rich and bitter brew, “Palate cleanser,” he winks at Timmy. Timmy who’s paused several feet away from the bed, tilting the plate away from Armie’s sight. Armie rolls his lips between his teeth at the sight. He places the coffee mug back down, carefully aligning it with one of the circles already left on the table. Closes his eyes and opens his mouth slightly. “Okay, doctor, whenever you’re ready.”

Timmy snorts into a laugh which makes him giggle and Armie’s lips stretch into an open-mouth grin. “So let’s see if your, uh, _palate_ can taste the difference between sugary American garbage, and, like, small batch artisan French jam.”

Armie closes his mouth and licks his lips, he’s tempted to open his eyes, or just one eye, but keeps them closed. “You know you’re half-American, right? This sugary garbage is also your, uh, legacy too?”

“But I’m also half-French,” Armie can hear the pout in Timmy’s voice. “And my palate is, like, uh, fully French.”

“Uh huh,” Armie smiles with closed eyes. “I’ll be sure to remind your _palate_ of its nationality next time you’re shoveling street meat into your mouth.”

Armie hears Timmy exhale sharply through his nose and the thud-thud-thud of his feet against the floor and “Shut up,” is muttered before bread and jam is pushed into his mouth. He chews the soft bread and sticky sweet strawberry spread. 

Armie’s suddenly aware how long it takes him to chew and swallow. He licks his lips, smacks them together. “Okay, okay, delicious.” He smiles in the direction of Timmy’s breath on his skin. “Next sample, doctor?”

“Wait,” Timmy commands. Armie feels the rim of his coffee mug pressed against his lips. He opens them a crack and Timmy slowly tilts the mug forward. As the rich flavor spills into Armie’s mouth, Timmy whispers, “Palate cleanser.” And Armie tries not to choke on the hot coffee with his laughter. 

He swallows, licks his lips, and says, into the dark space behind his closed eyes, “Okay, I’m ready for the next one.” 

Soft bread and sticky sweet strawberry spread are pushed into his mouth again. He chews and chews but, “I can’t tell the difference,” he says around the food in his mouth. He feels a pang, sure he’s going to disappoint Timmy with his unrefined palate. The silence that greets his admission strums the cord of that sinking sensation. 

He blinks his eyes open, squinting against the soft winter sunlight. Timmy is sitting facing him, legs crossed, the plate with bread and jam between them, and both his hands covering his mouth. Armie looks more closely at the plate, noticing that all the pieces of bread have the same bright red spread across the top. “Timmy?” There’s an edge to his voice. It sounds like a warning. “What did you do?”

Breathless giggles burst forth into the space between them. Timmy’s hands move from his face as he wraps his arms around his stomach, as if to hold in the laughter from bursting forth directly from his belly. Armie picks up the plate, picks up each piece of bread and looks at it closely, sniffs it, tries to maintain a serious expression. “Dr. Chalamet, you didn’t interfere with the results of the experiment, did you?” 

He sets the plate down beside the bed and lunges forward, digging his fingers into Timmy’s sides, into the spaces between his ribs, until Timmy’s long, slender limbs are flailing in every direction and he nearly knees Armie in the balls. Armie pauses, fingers hovering over Timmy’s rib cage, knees on either side of his narrow hips, lips close enough to feel the warm puffs of air of Timmy’s shouts and laughter. He pauses and takes in Timmy’s flushed cheeks, his hair, still slightly damp, spread out like a halo on the comforter below him, smiling all the way up to his eyes. 

He pauses and lets the moment wash over him, how they are now. He pauses before bending closer and closing the laughter-filled gap between them, pressing his lips to Timmy’s, still parted in a smile. He presses his lips to Timmy’s and then Timmy’s fingers are in his hair, pulling, pulling him closer, tugging on his hair, twisting it between his fingers. It is sharp and bright. And Timmy’s tongue is there, licking the seam of Armie’s lips, plunging into his mouth. His hips are pressing up, his hardening cock sliding against Armie’s ass. 

Armie shifts to lie down on top of Timmy, grinding against him, sliding his hands up his shirt, fingers grasping, running his fingers along ridges of his rib cage, the same places where moments before he had been digging in, trying to pull helpless laughter from him. He rubs his thumbs against Timmy’s nipples and Timmy’s hands slide from Armie’s hair to his biceps as Armie’s mouth trails from Timmy’s lips, littering kisses along his jaw, to his neck, pulling the thin skin there into his mouth as Timmy sucks in a gasp of air. He keeps nibbling on the skin there, burrowing in the place where his neck and shoulder meet, and Timmy thrusts up again, this cock tenting his joggers. Armie’s fingers untie the drawstring and tug them off of him and push his shirt up, letting his tongue outline every freckle, every muscle there. Timmy’s fingers twist again in Armie’s hair, trying to direct his head, his mouth down toward his dick. Armie resists and Timmy lifts his head a little and looks at him. 

“Roll over,” Armie’s voice is hoarse. He keeps his hand on Timmy’s hip while he hurries to change positions and lets it slip underneath him to grasp his cock. He licks down Timmy’s crack, pulling him open with his other hand, while Timmy grinds into his palm. 

Timmy’s hole is tight and Armie wriggles the tip of his tongue in until he feels it soften. The trust and vulnerability of that never failing to dance along. Armie’s spine, like a volt of electricity. He makes his tongue stiff and presses it inside, and Timmy moans and shifts back against his mouth, lifting up onto his knees slightly. 

Armie pulls his tongue out of Timmy’s ass and starts licking at that spot behind his balls. Timmy presses back more, more, more, and Armie uses a finger to keep massaging that spot and returns to licking his hole. He works a finger in next to his tongue, Timmy groaning as he stretches him with his knuckle. Armie feels himself growing harder in his pajama bottoms but ignores it, licking Timmy’s hole more and then pressing a second finger in. 

“Fuck, Armie…” Timmy throbs in Armie’s hand and rocks against his fingers. Armie feels something wash over him something familiar, desire, and something new, something that feels like power. He eases his fingers out of him and stands up to pull off his soft clothes and grab the lube from the worn beat up bedside table. 

Armie kneels next to Timmy and slicks his fingers before sliding them in again. He rests his hand on the small of Timmy’s back, practically able to touch both hips, and watches his fingers disappear inside him. His hole flutters open and then closes around his knuckles and he feels that rush again. That rush that feels like power. When his hole softens again, Armie pulls his fingers out and presses them in again, this time three of them, woven together, and slick with lube. Timmy is tight but suddenly Armie’s knuckles are inside and Timmy’s cock jerks against his hand and the tip is wet when he brushes it. 

Armie fucks him slowly, watching every muscle in his shoulders strain, his hips moving back when he pulls his fingers out a little, then shifting to take them deeper when he presses them back in. He splays them out as he feels Timmy get looser and a gasp falls from Timmy’s mouth onto the bed beneath him as Armie brushes against that bright shiny sharp spot inside him. 

Armie wants to fuck him but he wants something else more. He lets his pinky touch his hole and Timmy groans. 

Timmy has had four fingers inside Armie plenty of times, fucked him with them. And Armie knows the initial sting of the stretch when four knuckles are pressed inside him, but he wants this. He wants to know what it feels like to have Timmy’s tight hole fluttering around his fingers. He wants to make Timmy come the way Timmy made him come with four fingers fucking into him, pressing against his prostate, while Timmy jerked him off. Armie bites back a groan of his own, he’s not even touching his own dick but it’s as hard and dripping as if he were. 

Timmy shifts back against Armie’s hand with an urgency, no part of his body is still. Armie pulls his fingers out, lets go of Timmy’s cock, and grabs the lube again, letting it run over his hand and make everything slippery. He presses three fingers back in and rests the tip of his pinky at Timmy’s hole. He watches as Timmy’s hole flutters once, twice, and then presses the fourth finger in with the rest. Timmy’s rib cage, protecting everything delicate in him, expands with his breath and then contracts and then he presses back onto Armie’s fingers. The space inside him is so tight, Armie feels like they could be joined like this forever. Wants them joined like this forever. He murmurs Timmy’s name and feels him relax even more. 

Armie begins to fuck Timmy, dancing his fingers over his prostate as whimpers puddle onto the mattress like the precome dripping from his cock. Armie rests his head on Timmy’s back and he swears he can hear the ratatat of Timmy’s heart beat. Armie flutters his fingers again and jerks Timmy hard and Timmy shouts out and comes, groaning Armie’s name with a hoarse voice that Armie wants recorded, seared in his memory so he can replay it when they’re apart. 

Armie can feel the thud-thud vibration of Timmy’s heart as he presses his cheek against Timmy’s back and flutters his fingers once more. Timmy comes again, hard and almost dry in Armie’s palm. 

He eases his fingers out of him, hand on Timmy’s hip, as Timmy gulps in deep shuddering breaths. Timmy drops to the bed below and rolls over, pulling Armie on top of him. Armie presses his aching cock into the slick mess on his stomach and thrusts against him, into that wetness on Timmy’s smooth skin, until he comes too, burning liquid between their bodies. He drops his forehead to Timmy’s shoulder and they lie there. 

They lie there catching their breath, pressed together, one awkward four-legged, four-armed being. They lie there until they hear a groan. A groan not from either of them but from the bedframe below. A cheap thing, secondhand and made of pressboard. It has been pushed to its limits by tickling and fucking and cuddling. It groans and creaks and breaks. The box spring, followed by the mattress, followed by the comforter, and finally followed by the awkward four-legged, four-armed being all landing on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I continue to be astounded by the reaction to this story. Thank you all so much for every kudos, comment, tumblr message, and discord dm. Now that the boys are together, I was worried that interest would drop off. I personally love established relationship dynamics but there’s less tension there. To everyone who assured me they want to continue to read this story - thank you! I don’t have a clear end point but I love this ‘verse and I’ll happily write it indefinitely.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness you all! Thank you for your incredible response to the last chapter and sharing my enthusiasm for established (or becoming established) relationship dynamics. 
> 
> I feel badly having split this chapter from the previous one because I think I caused some stress by teasing the fight. It’s here, in this chapter, and it’s resolved in this chapter as well. Like for many couples, it feels big at the time but arguments are important in relationships too. How we argue, the things we argue about, can move us forward just as much as happy times. 
> 
> (That some of you were stressed out is actually quite moving - you care about these boys as I’ve imagined them in this ‘verse. That feels incredible.)

_They lie there catching their breath, pressed together, one awkward four-legged, four-armed being. They lie there until they hear a groan. A groan not from either of them but from the bedframe below. A cheap thing, secondhand and made of pressboard. It has been pushed to its limits by tickling and fucking and cuddling. It groans and creaks and breaks. The box spring, followed by the mattress, followed by the comforter, and finally followed by the awkward four-legged, four-armed being all landing on the floor._

It was almost graceful.

Armie looks down at Timmy, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. Armie looks down at Timmy, thinks about the force with which he landed on him. “Are you - are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Timmy sounds breathless. “I - I think so? Maybe just, um, surprised?”

Timmy sounds breathless and it takes Armie a moment but then he rolls off of him. “You sure?” Armie runs his hands with ghost touch over his naked body, checking him for injury. 

Timmy pushes himself up on his elbows. “What about you?”

Armie’s eyebrows draw in and he licks his lips. “What about me?”

“Are you okay?” Timmy leans his weight onto one elbow and runs his hand over Armie’s shoulder, down his bicep, to his forearm, linking their fingers together when it gets to its destination. 

Armie’s eyebrows furrow more deeply. “Me? What? Yeah, I’m, I’m fine.” 

Timmy looks around at the wreckage surrounding them, clasps Armie’s fingers between his own more tightly. “What do we - what do we do now?”

Armie looks around at the mess that was once their, _Timmy’s,_ bed under the boxspring and mattress, with the fitted and flat sheet still tucked around it, the comforter between them. He looks at Timmy, lying there, propped up on one elbow, and at himself, regards them, their naked bodies, sweat and come still cooling on heated skin. “I think, I think first we shower. Then we deal with,” he looks around again, “this.”

They crowd into Timmy’s tiny cubicle shower with the good water pressure, turning around and around in circles as they take turns under the spray and with the soap. Armie gently removes the bar from Timmy’s hands and runs it along his shoulders and across his chest, his index finger lifting off the soap to trace the lines of his shoulder blades, his pectorals, under the film left in the bar’s path. He guides Timmy under the shower head and grabs his shampoo, filling his palm with three times as much gel as needed, the scent of tea tree oil mixing with the steam. Armie digs his fingers into Timmy’s curls, his scalp, Timmy’s head falling back to rest against his shoulder, a soft sigh filling the small space they stand in. 

They don’t hurry through drying off, getting dressed, Timmy putting blue gel in his hair. They don’t hurry but it can’t be put off, they stand over the mess on the floor and Armie blows a breath out through pursed lips. 

“Okay,” he nods, looking around. “Okay. So we, uh, need to get rid of the bed frame, and, um, set up the mattress and boxspring on the floor for now.” He glances down. “Maybe change the sheets too.” 

Timmy chuckles and looks up at him, lips twisted in a half smile, rubs his palms on his pants. “So let’s do this.” 

Together, the work isn’t too much. Together, it’s easier to move the mattress and boxspring to their sides and move the pieces of the bed frame, cheap and second hand, out from where they lay, broken on the floor. Together, they carry the pieces down to the curb in front of the building, breath catching in twin gasps at the wind whipping through their clothes. 

They carry the comforter and bed sheets to the laundry room and start a few loads. They stack the mattress on top of the boxspring and unfold and float clean sheets down on top of it, tucking in corners and smoothing out the creases from where they were folded, sending sparks between them from the static in the dry winter air. And they both drop onto the mattress far below them, bedside tables towering on each side. 

The next morning, Armie finds himself lying diagonally across the mattress, feet hanging off the side, comforter pulled up and over his head, Timmy’s legs wrapped around his neck, a heel digging into his shoulder, thighs trembling, his hips finally motionless as his cock swells even more where it is buried in Armie’s mouth and throat before he comes with a shout and a groan. Armie crawls up the mattress and flops on his back beside Timmy, who is lying there with an arm thrown over his face. 

“G’morning,” Armie’s voice is hoarse from sleep and Timmy’s dick. He rolls to his side and nuzzles a kiss against Timmy’s neck. 

“Mmm, morning,” Timmy turns to face Armie, kissing him, swiping his tongue into Armie’s mouth, licking at the taste there. “I really like the features of this new alarm clock.” 

“Yeah?” Armie pulls Timmy closer to him, lets his own cock drag across his thigh. 

“Yeah,” Timmy presses his leg between Armie’s. “Seems like you’re a fan too.”

“Mmhmm,” Armie presses his face against Timmy’s collarbone before turning Timmy around. He reaches up and over to the bedside table to grab the lube, slicking himself and Timmy’s thighs, thrusting in between them, eliciting a “Fuck yeah,” from Timmy, who crosses his ankles and tightens his legs around Armie’s cock. 

Armie pulls Timmy against him, curves over him, presses his forehead to the space between Timmy’s shoulder blades, lays his hand against the soft skin of Timmy’s stomach, dry and warm. 

“Timmy,” Armie whispers.

“Wait - “ spills from Timmy’s lips and Armie stills instantly. “Sorry. Can - can I grab the plug?” 

Armie lets his hand travel south, brush against Timmy’s cock, hardening once more. “Insatiable,” he growls against Timmy’s ear, reaching up and over, this time to open the drawer in the table above them, running his hand over the items there until he lands on the tapered end and flared base of the plug that Timmy loves. Lies back as he watches Timmy get it wet with lube, tease his hole with the tip, before pressing it in with a deep groan, and reaching out his hands for Armie to return to holding him against his chest, fucking the space between his thighs, leg draped over Timmy’s, pressing the plug against that sharp shiny spot inside him. 

Timmy’s head drops back onto Armie’s shoulder, mouth open and panting. Armie slides his hand from Timmy’s chest up to his throat, wrapping lightly around it, feeling the pulse thrumming there, imagining he can feel the breath as it moves up and down Timmy’s throat, feeling him alive, there, so very much there, in his embrace. He slides his other hand down to Timmy’s cock, hard and leaking precome once again, and it feels like power. Power to hold him like this, power to make him gasp with every push of his hips against the flared base of the plug, power as he imagines coming hot and wet over Timmy’s balls and dick, marking him. It fills his chest, it tumbles from his mouth in moans and Timmy’s name, stretched out like they are across the mattress. 

Timmy’s name rips through his chest and from his mouth as he comes. He comes and continues thrusting, his cock sensitive and softening between Timmy’s thighs, pushing against that flared base peeking out between the small soft globes of Timmy’s ass, stroking his hand along his length, his own come easing the way, until Timmy reaches back, digging his fingers into the fleshy muscle of Armie’s ass, pulling him close, slowing his movements, his head dropping forward as he groans, his throat vibrating in Armie’s hand, his come spilling over Armie’s fist, mixing, joining with Armie’s. And it feels right.

Later. Later after they lie there, Timmy wrapped up in the fortress of Armie’s embrace. Later, after Armie helps ease the plug out and runs a finger along Timmy’s puffy and pink rim. Later, after Armie pushes himself up and off the mattress, holding back a groan, wanting to make that bridge across the decade that separates them smaller, as small as possible. Later, after he kneels down on the mattress and wipes Timmy’s soft cock nestled among dark curls, wipes his balls, between his legs, and between those small soft globes with a warm wet washcloth. Later. Later, he looks up at the two bedside tables towering above them and murmurs into Timmy’s soft, bed-matted, curls, “We should go bed shopping.”

Timmy sighs and runs his fingers along Armie’s hands. “Yeah.”

Armie looks around the space. “We should get a king size bed.” 

“_We_ should - ” Timmy begins, cuts himself off. Armie wonders whether the edge to the _we_ is only in his mind. “Armie,” his voice is softer, blurry around the edges. “I don’t, there’s no room for a king size bed here.” And Armie sees them, from a bird’s eye view, his tall frame taking up most of the space, crowding Timmy. And it feels like crowding Timmy out. Armie, who has always felt like too much, something to be shaved off around the edges so he fits more neatly into the life that had been anticipated for him. Armie who has always felt too big, except with Timmy. Timmy who makes him feel like he’s no bigger than what Timmy can carry in his heart. He feels too big. Too much. And a month after Timmy’s accident, as though maybe he shouldn’t be crowding Timmy out of his space like this.

They had agreed to not live together, they had agreed it was too soon. Armie looks around the space, his suitcase wide open, like his heart, and he wants to shove everything of his back in, zip it up. He has the keys to the company apartment but it has sat unused since he’s been in the city. 

Armie links his fingers with Timmy’s and runs his thumb over their knuckles zipped up together, stronger for being linked than they are on their own. Runs his thumb over their knuckles and opens his mouth. He opens his mouth and intends to say it’s Timmy’s space and maybe he’s overstayed in this small studio. Intends to offer to move to the company apartment, intends to offer to go bed shopping for a queen size bed. He intends this but instead pulls their knuckles, zipped together, to his lips and murmurs against them, “Maybe we should, instead of bed shopping, look for an apartment?” 

He feels Timmy freeze beside him. He feels his freeze and wants to bite the words back from the air. He wants to bite the words back from the air until Timmy whispers. “Like, together?”

Armie rolls into Timmy, pushes his face into him and speaks around his collarbone. “I know, I know we said it was too early. But, like, I don’t know. Buying a bed that eventually, maybe sooner than later, but like at some point, you wouldn’t need.” He pauses, licks at a freckle. “Yeah, together. Unless - “

“Yeah,” Armie can hear the corners of Timmy’s mouth pressing up, can hear the crinkles beside those sleepy sloped eyes, “Yeah, let’s do it.” 

They embark on the adventure that is real estate in Manhattan. 

Armie begins to realize there is a problem. A problem that would not have occurred had Pauline not sent Timmy a Valentine’s Day present, which led to the taste test, which led to the bed breaking, and now to apartment hunting. If Marc and Nicole hadn’t had a family that exchanged Valentine’s Day gifts.

(Armie ignores, perhaps, that if the shitty second hand bed was going to break, their sex life would have been far and away enough to break the bed on its own.)

The problem, Armie is beginning to realize, is house hunting. House hunting when one person has done this before and felt he did a perfectly fine job of it. House hunting when the other has only ever lived someplace that was picked out based on the size of his paycheck and the cost of rent and this is his first chance to truly pick out a place that he wants. 

“You love the beach house!” Armie’s voice has an edge to it, an edge on this side of raising it. 

“Yesssss,” Timmy drags out the word and sighs and Armie feels his back of his neck heat up. “Yes, I love it because it’s _you_ so totally you. But, like, is it me? I don’t, um, know if I would, like, pick it out myself.”

And it hurts. It hurts and feels like Timmy means he wouldn’t pick Armie. 

Their voices bounce off the walls of the studio apartment, too small to contain them and their argument. 

Armie stalks into the kitchen, lays his palms flat on the counter, feels the rise and fall of his chest as he takes deep breaths. He nearly jumps when he feels Timmy’s fingertips graze his shoulder. He turns around and looks down at Timmy, his eyes shiny like lily covered ponds, his lip white from teeth marks and slowly pinking back up, his fingers trembling slightly as they reach for Armie’s. 

“Maybe,” he begins. He takes a breath and continues, speaking through the exhale. “Maybe we were right before. It’s too soon to live together.” 

Armie pulls Timmy into his chest, tucks his head under his chin, presses his lips to his curls, and murmurs, “I should - I should go to the company apartment.” Timmy pulls away and looks up at him, searches his eyes. “It’s what we had planned anyway, right?” Timmy leans back in, nods, his curls tickling Armie’s nose. 

Armie packs his things, zips the suitcase up, while Timmy sits on the mattress, his legs crossed in front of him, chewing on his thumbnail. Armie places both hands on the mattress and leans over Timmy, who drops his hand into his lap, and tilts his head up for Armie to place a chaste kiss on his lips. He grabs his bag and walks out the door to the apartment, using his key to lock it behind him. 

Armie unlocks and steps into the company apartment, the air is fresh and everything is dust free courtesy of the cleaning service Ivory Marketing employs. The bouquet of fresh flowers on the entryway table reminds Armie that it’s Valentine’s Day, reminds Armie of shopping for stemware that had been paused to shop for an apartment, of reservations cancelled that morning, of flowers that will still arrive to Timmy’s door, without Armie there to bury his face in Timmy’s curls holding him from behind while Timmy buries his in the velvety blooms. It’s Valentine’s Day and they spend it apart. 

Armie steps out on the balcony and the late winter wind steals his breath, reminds him of running into the ocean. He rests his forearms on the railing and peers into the bright night. Street lamps cast the sidewalks in a fluorescent orange, lights from a million windows across hundreds of buildings give the feeling of families cozy at home together. Armie stands there in the cold night and thinks about what he wants. He wants windows spilling warm light into the night, he wants a home, with a family cozy inside while wind whips a furious frenzy down wind tunnels between buildings. He runs his hands along the railing and breathes the freezing air deep into his lungs. He turns and walks back into the warm apartment, a plan settling into place. 

For the next month they date as though they had met under regular circumstances, not as CFO and an assistant, not over Zoom during a global crisis, not on opposite coasts. 

They meet for coffee. They go out on dates. They laugh with each other and kiss under street lights, oblivious to the cold air around them, pouring heat into each other’s mouths, warming each other from the inside. 

Armie lies in bed at night imagining Timmy’s lips places other than Armie’s mouth, his neck, his hands. Armie lies in bed imagining Timmy’s lips, his tongue, tracing every muscle and tendon, dragging down from Armie’s neck, to his chest, as Armie twists his nipples until they’re standing up and peaked. Imagines Timmy’s crooked perfect mouth tracing every ridge of Armie’s rib cage, nibbling at the softness of his belly, trailing down the fuzzy hair between his navel and where his cock lies, fattening up as he drags spit slicked fingers down his body, finally allowing himself to touch when he comes to the end of his journey. Imagines Timmy teasing him. He drags a single finger up the underside of his dick, tracing the head, rubbing that spot underneath with soft touch. Ghosts his fingers over his balls and traces the wrinkled skin at his hole. 

Armie rolls over and ruts against the mattress as he presses his fingers between rounded flesh, presses lubed fingers inside and imagines fingers more slender and pale, imagines a wet pink tongue joining them. Fucks himself on his fingers until he’s groaning and spilling below him. He rolls over onto his back, out of the wet spot, and grabs some tissues to clean himself up.

He rolls over onto his back and spreads his arms and legs wide across the king size bed and stares at the ceiling. 

He invites Timmy over the next day. Sparkling apple cider is chilled, a bouquet is sitting on the living room table, and Armie is pacing about the place, straightening things on surfaces,fluffing throw pillows, turning the vase this way and that. It reminds the couch of something familiar. 

The bell rings and Armie takes a deep breath before opening it and greeting Timmy with a kiss. They saw each other yesterday and the day before that but Armie feels something like hope alight in his chest and he pours it into Timmy. 

Timmy shrugs off his jacket and hangs it up and Armie leads him to the couch. The couch hasn’t seen Timmy in nearly a year and a half. Armie pops the cork and pours the bubbly into crystal flutes while Timmy bends over and presses his face into the bouquet. Armie hands him a glass and they touch, a lovely chime filling the room, in an otherwise silent toast.

Armie remembers two years ago to the day - his invitation to Timmy isn’t accidental - two years ago sitting in a nearly empty Zoom meeting, watching Timmy, eyebrows furrowed, working on his notes, eating apple slices, and licking his fingers. He remembers how he felt watching him, a part of himself already in NYC, in that studio apartment, already grabbing Timmy’s hand, pressing those fingers to his own mouth, licking the tart juice off of them. 

Timmy sits back, sips his drink, and licks his lips while Armie runs his finger along the rim of his glass. He glances back at Timmy and takes a deep breath. “I was thinking - “

“Me too, Armie,” Timmy joins. “I should just get a king. It - it doesn’t make sense for you to feel cramped in my space.” 

Armie sighs and a small smile makes its way to his lips. “No, Timmy,” he says with a soft chuckle. “That’s _your_ space. It should be - be comfortable for you. For as long as you want to live there.” 

Timmy’s mouth twists as he chews the corner of his lips. “But I do want to live with you, I do.” He blows a breath out through his nose. 

“I know you do,” Armie’s hand covers Timmy’s knee, could easily wrap most of the way around the joint. “I do too.” He takes another sip of the cider. “We haven’t, haven’t been able to agree - “

“I know,” Timmy’s chin drops towards his chest and this is not going how Armie had planned. He opens his mouth to say more and Armie cuts him off, doesn’t want Timmy to apologize for anything. 

“I was wondering, thinking, what about this place?” Armie looks around at the room they’re sitting in.

“Here?” Timmy’s voice squeaks.

“I know it has - has some unhappy memories.” Armie’s stomach twists at the memory of it. The memory of walking out and leaving Timmy alone. Leaving Timmy alone to pack his things and leave. Timmy standing in the bedroom behind them, holding Armie’s ratty hoodie, wondering if he had any claim to it. Taking it whether or not he did.

He did. He always has. 

“But,” he inhales. “I was wondering, wondering if we might want to live here?”

“Here?” Timmy looks around. The couch below them feels hopeful. “But, but isn’t it - “

“If you don’t want to, if you don’t like it, just say,” Armie rushes in.

“No it’s not - it’s - doesn’t this belong to - “

“The company, yes, yeah, it does,” Armie grabs hold of one of Timmy’s hands in his. “But I talked to Luca and he’s honestly been thinking about selling it anyway and - “

“And we could live here?”

“We could but only if you - “

“And you would still keep the beach house?” Timmy’s eyes are wide. “I love the beach house, I do. I never meant that - “

“I would still keep the beach house,” Armie assures him, feeling something fall back into place inside him, wanting to give Timmy that same feeling. 

“Live here?”

“Only if you - “

“I do, I want to.”

The couch cradles them as they set their flutes down next to the bright and beautiful bouquet. The couch cradles them as they kiss until their lips are swollen. The couch cradles them until they have to get up and leave or risk being late to reservations at the Italian place near the office.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your continued support! I love hearing what you think and all your reactions to these boys.
> 
> I hope you each remain safe and well.

Timmy stands in the living room of the company apartment.

No, he corrects himself, reminds himself, feels a smile paint its way up his face starting with his lips. 

He stands in the living room of _their_ apartment. 

Them.

Theirs.

Ours.

He stands in the living room surrounded by moving boxes. More than a reasonable number contain his books, his DVDs. The rest are Armie’s books, his DVDs. They had flown to Los Angeles so that Armie could pack up his clothes, his books, his DVDs from the house on the beach. So Armie could unpack the boxes he had packed when the house was on-then-off the market. So they could decide, together, to leave Armie’s copies of books they both own at the beach. 

The Vonneguts, the Foster Wallaces, and the Franzens each live on different coasts. Same with several books of essays - duplicates of Lindy West, Roxane Gay, and Ijeoma Oluo remain separated. Armie had packed up his biographies and historical non-fiction to join Timmy’s plays and poetry. They’re somewhere in one of the boxes littering the otherwise empty space. 

Timmy stands in the nearly empty living room, Armie’s voice bouncing off the walls and tall ceilings, all recently painted gallery-white. The springtime sun pours in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, warming up the space as Timmy listens to one half a conversation. 

“Yes, moving in - “ Armie’s deep voice echoes more than usual in the space. He bites his lip and his eyes crinkle in Timmy’s direction. “No, no I think u-hauling is only a stereotype for - yeah, yes… Well yeah only three months but… but also two years.” He catches Timmy’s eye and shakes his head through silent laughter. “Yes, if you use my math, two years.” Timmy rubs his palms together, holds his hands up by his chest as if in prayer. “So can you - yes, yes I’m admitting I need your… yes what you said. Your help. Okay?” He reaches out a hand in Timmy’s direction and, like breathing, Timmy’s body carries him the few steps into the half-embrace, tucking himself against Armie’s side, warm and sturdy. “So you’ll come? Yeah? Great. Okay, yes, yes… Mmhmm, he’s excited too. Yes, text the details. See you soon. Love you.” 

Armie swipes his phone closed and looks down at Timmy, his eyes glittering deep blue pools. Timmy looks up and, “She’s coming?”

“She’s coming.” 

Timmy’s laugh is breathy and startled. “And she’s okay with - “ he gestures between himself and Armie. 

“And she’s okay with - “ Armie cuts himself off with a sigh. He begins again, the edges of his voice even softer, like a smudged charcoal line on heavy paper. “Timmy she was rooting for us before I even began to hope there could be an us.” 

Timmy molds his body more tightly to Armie’s, wrapping his arms around his waist, nuzzling his nose, forehead against his chest, breathing in the scent of heavy salty sea air swirled together with something that is just Armie. Like his grandmother’s cooking, it smells like home. 

A home they have yet to decorate. 

A home that intimidates Timmy, who’s only ever decorated with secondhand items that were cheap to begin with. A home that has made Armie admit he had very little involvement in decorating the house at the beach. A home that has made them turn to each other, crinkles beside their eyes, and admit they need help. Help in the form of an artist’s eye. Help in the form of Liz. 

Liz arrives at their apartment on one of those New York spring days that starts out gloomy and gray and ends warm, bright, and clear. Liz arrives, her wool coat open and swinging, her cheekbones flushed, her ponytail swinging high on her head, and her arms filled with binders, photos and samples of fabric, wallpaper, paint chips sticking out everywhere. 

Timmy jumps up from the box of books he was sitting on, leaving his jacket in a puddle behind him. He stands but makes no movement toward the door, on Armie’s heels. He stands, rubbing the back of his neck, one foot crossed over the other, suddenly feeling young and underdressed in his joggers and sweater. 

He knows Liz. He’s met her over screens in the way everyone met anyone new in 2020. He knows she laughs easily. He knows she cares about Armie deeply and knows him well. Timmy knows this from the snippets of conversation, fit together like pieces of a puzzle, grabbed from the times she picked up FaceTime calls from him when Armie was on another call. He’s heard her voice drop into a conspiratorial tone and confide in him her surprise at Armie’s sudden interest in cooking, his revisiting of old, beloved books, his smile, once seldom seen (“not that he was unhappy before, no, but, perhaps, not happy exactly, either”) now a regular and welcome guest in their home. He knows, too, that she doesn’t like bell peppers - after coaching Armie through roasting red peppers to add to homemade hummus - and she loves chocolate. But he doesn’t know her in the way he knows Armie. He doesn’t know how her smile changes when it’s one to please to one that’s pleased. He doesn’t know whether her tight, sharp, hug is something offered easily and freely or rarely given. He doesn’t know if she’s here for Armie or for them, despite Armie’s reassurances. 

He walks over the entryway standing a step behind Armie as he and Liz greet each other, talk over each other, like soft blankets lazily layered on a bed. Timmy pulls the sleeves of his sweater over his hands, rubs the seam at the cuff between his fingers, and waits for Armie to remember him. Liz sees him first, her smile stretching ever wider, wide enough to fit him in too. Her gray green eyes light up at seeing him, and Timmy feels like her eyes see through him and the warmth fills him more than the sunlight streaming in through the windows. 

“Timmy!” She exclaims, pulling away from Armie, stretching her arms out towards him. He walks into her tight embrace. Liz smells like clean laundry and sharp spicy cinnamon gum and hugs hard, her pointy parts digging into Timmy’s. “It’s so good to finally meet you, in person, hug you.” Her arms tighten around him, drawing his shoulder blades together and he’s reminded of the first hug he gave Saoirse in November 2020, just before Armie came to visit. He remembers that first touch-starved hug, clinging to each other, feeling the weight and heat of another person’s body in his arms once again. A feeling that had been a ghost of a memory, something he had longed for but could not quite remember. Just a deep sense of knowing he needed it without being able to remember why. And, at that first touch, feeling color flood back into the world around him. He hadn’t even noticed the way everything vibrant had faded until it was back. He felt like he was stepping into Oz except he was finally home again and, in his time away, like Dorothy, had learned there was no place like it. 

Her heels echo in the nearly empty apartment. She murmurs to herself, binders set aside for now, occasionally raising her hands in front of her making a frame with her fingers. She remarks in a tone of voice not meant to be heard, but audible nonetheless in the bright echoey space, about southern exposures and window treatments and clean lines. She murmurs into empty cabinets and drawers in the kitchen, runs manicured fingers along the edge of their circular free-standing soaker tub - the one purchase they have agreed on and made, and stands with her back against two of the walls in their bedroom. 

Later that week, Timmy takes her for coffee. They sit in a booth with cracked vinyl seats, under harsh fluorescent lighting. The air around them is thick with the scent of homemade pies, made fresh daily by Pauline’s childhood best friend’s grandmother. A slice of strawberry-rhubarb sits between them and they have hands wrapped around oversized mugs filled with coffee, bitter, strong, and rich. The heat from the mugs travels up Timmy’s arms and into his chest and he smiles at Liz. She smiles back and takes a sip of her coffee, leaving a perfect lipstick mark on the rim of the mug. 

“You’ve been traveling?” Timmy clears his throat and chews the corner of his mouth.

Liz’s grin widens and her eyes glitter like sea glass. “Oh yes,” her laugh is light and floats away on the backs of the sounds of the conversations around them. She gets out of her side of the booth and slides in next to Timmy, pulling her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans. She hands it over and narrates as Timmy slides through photographs, beautifully composed, of her travels through Iceland, Croatia, and Russia. His heart twisting a little at the idea of her in Russia, standing before the bright building of St. Basil’s Cathedral, in the homeland of Armie’s ancestors, a place (now) off-limits and out-of-bounds to him, to them. His finger slides through these artful photographs, test photos really but more beautiful than any he’s ever taken, interspersed with blurry selfies. Liz leans in closer and whispers, “If there are any you like, let me know. I want to give you and Armie something, at least one photograph, to hang in your new home.” She pauses, tucks an invisible wisp of hair behind her ear, and “If - if you want. I don’t want to - maybe you don’t want one of my photographs in your home.” 

Timmy places the phone down on the metal-edged table in front of them and lays his hand on top of hers, linking their fingers and squeezing. “You will always have a presence in our home,” his voice is low and deep with all he wants to convey. “I wouldn’t have - we would not have - he would never - “ He takes a breath that pushes his belly towards his baggy sweater, holds it at the top before pushing the air out, sending a ripple across the top of his coffee. “...without you.” 

Liz leans into Timmy’s shoulder a bit, like she wants to put an arm around him but is afraid of breaking their connection of fingers looped around each other. It’s probably his imagination but he can feel the warmth radiate off her and through his clothing to his skin, warming him like the coffee. “Timmy… it was… well it was not me. I didn’t do anything. It was all Armie and, well, you. Meeting you, falling in love with you, it - he realized a life he could have never imagined.” 

“But why - what about me? I mean all those years and no one?” Timmy’s voice is soft among the sharp waves of other voices around them. 

“No one.”

“But I’m - this isn’t like me putting myself down but I am, just, me.” 

“That sounds like something, a question for Armie.” They both step carefully around speaking for Armie, taking credit from the other for Armie’s own growth, steps and changes he took and made himself. 

“So you’ve always known he’s gay?”

“I’ve always known he’s gay.” 

Timmy wraps his free hand around his coffee mug, not as warm now. He stares at the surface of the remaining liquid for a moment before looking up and twisting slightly towards Liz. “Why did you stay all those - “ he twists back to face his nearly empty mug “ - years.” His voice quieter now than when he started speaking, like the steam of courage pushing his words out had cooled with his coffee. 

Liz’s laugh trips and trickles around them like a cloud spun of golden thread. “Why indeed.” She lifts her hand from Timmy’s and raises both to her ponytail, tightening it. 

Timmy’s chin drops to his chest. “Sorry,” he mutters. “That was - “ He lifts his head and looks her in the eye, still twinkling. “That was prying.” 

“Pry away!” She laughs. “It’s a fair question. I would be curious myself.”

“Then why?” The question is simple and true. Ever since that awful night, ever since “I love you,” “I’m sorry” and the relief of the next day, learning that Liz had been by Armie’s side since college, his partner in every way but one. Ever since then he’s wondered. 

“I guess the answer is, why not?” The corners of Liz’s mouth turn up in a soft small smile. “I had everything I could want, you know? Freedom and financial stability to do my art, the companionship of my best friend.” Timmy’s heart drops at the thought that he took that away from her. Liz seems to sense his sudden unease, wraps a long slender arm around him, it feels like he’s hugging himself. “Everything I could want until it was time - time for both of us, you know, to move on.” 

“You - you would have been ready to move on too?” He dares a glance at her from under a thick curtain of curls and eyelashes. 

She pauses and tilts her head away from him, eyebrows drawing together. She places her next words carefully between them. “Sometimes a baby bird has to be pushed out of the nest.” Her smile grows. “But yes, I was ready. I guess, I just hadn’t realized it.” She traces a line in the faux marble table with a nail painted a blush pink. “You blew into our lives Timmy, strong and certain, and our lives changed course but for far flung destinations - on maps we hadn’t thought to consult.” 

Timmy feels heat crawl up the back of his neck to his earlobes, up to the tips and paint its away across his cheeks. He shifts around in his seat. Liz squeezes his shoulder more tightly. 

“Whether you realize it or not, Timmy.” She speaks more softly. “You know yourself in a way Armie had not thought possible. You were, you _are_ a revelation.” 

Timmy places one foot on top of the other. “He’s, he’s given so much to me… too.” 

“Of course he has,” Liz’s voice is colored in with a smile. “He’s filled to the brim with love and kindness,” she says the words the way someone might say coffee and cream, as if they’re common. And maybe, in her life with Armie, they had been. “Just always looking for someplace, someone to pour them into. It’s been me, Nick to some extent, and then you.” She twists her mug around in its saucer so the handle is pointing in a ninety degree angle to the wall beside their booth. “And you fill him right back up.” She grins at Timmy. “I would have put my foot down,” she giggles. “Well maybe not, I’m not his parent.” Her face loses her smile for a moment. “I never was - it was never like that. We took care of each other.” Her smile returns. “I would have said something, if I thought he was starting something with someone, _god,_ unworthy? Not even. With someone who didn’t match him beat for beat.” 

“And what about you?” Timmy feels bold and brave. 

“What about me?” Liz wonders through a laugh. 

“Don’t you - haven’t you wanted someone?”

Liz shakes her head, her ponytail swinging this way, then that. “That’s never - it’s never been as important for me as for, well I suppose, as for other people. My art, my camera, my travels, they’re my partners in life.”

“Don’t you get lonely?” Timmy recalls the longing for someone during that first year of clean time, during quarantine. 

Liz shrugs a shoulder, the gesture is remarkably casual for her, for the her Timmy is getting to know. “I’ve had lovers,” she flutters her fingers over the table, like sprinkling soft lush flower petals across the surface. “But no one very long-term.” She turns and winks at him. “I like to travel light.”

Their forks clink and clang as they knock into each other over the slice of pie between them.

That night they crowd into Timmy’s tiny kitchen, all three of them, and each work on a piece of dinner. Liz’s long artist’s fingers twisting and turning vegetables this way and that as she chops a big salad and shakes up dressing in an empty jam jar. Armie stands over the stove cooking rich cuts of steak with butter and herbs. Timmy quickly works cold pastry dough, folding it over itself for a galette. The meal comes together as they do around the table. Timmy looks at the faces on either side of him, lit up by the tall tapered candles on the table, cleared of his laptop and papers, and lit up by something else, something less tangible than candlelight but no less real for it. A feeling bubbles up in Timmy, like the effervescent bubbles of champagne, and he grows a little light headed with the realization that it is the same feeling he had on Christmas Day, around the table with his mother, father, and Pauline. The same feeling he had when, after a day of travel, he steps, weariness sloughing off him, like a snake shedding its skin, into his grandmother’s house. 

By the time Liz leaves - jetting off to Egypt (“I’ve never seen the pyramids,” she whispers in Timmy’s ear, the sharp sweet smell of cinnamon flooding his senses) - Timmy and Armie are no longer sleeping on a mattress on the floor of Timmy’s studio apartment. The keys to that apartment have been handed over to the super, who grins and winks at Timmy and wishes them both good luck. 

They have a new king size four poster bed with crisp white bed sheets and a fluffy duvet to sleep on. Their apartment, their home, no longer echoes. Sounds are muffled and hushed by newly built in bookcases that stretch up to the impossibly tall ceilings, by an oversized mirror above the mantel, and by beautiful photographs of places they may one day travel as seen through the eye of someone who sees them just as clearly as though through the crisp focus on her camera lens, sees them each as they are individually and together. 

The rest of their home is filled with the comfortable and modern lines of names of designers Timmy thought only existed in museums. A bright white circle of a table, the comfortable baseball mitt of a reading chair, a bench of long lean slats in the entryway. 

It is bright white and new and theirs. Ours.


	24. TIMELINE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is not a real chapter. It is a timeline of all the events in this fic since it occurs over the course of a few years. I will update the fic so this chapter is always last - for easy reference and to avoid any spoilers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [s17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/s17) for asking about a timeline to this fic.

**June 2019** Timmy begins working at Ivory Advertising.

**March 15, 2020** Ivory advertising immediately shifts to work from home.

**March 20, 2020** All Hands Meeting via Zoom, Timmy and Armie see each other for the first time.

**March 25, 2020** First weekly meeting of assistants (Timmy) with the CFO (Armie), meets Liz.

**March 30, 2020** Armie has bourbon delivered to Timmy and Timmy calls Armie to tell him about his history of addiction.

**March 31, 2020** Email from Luca to the entire company advising against drinking during work hours, or the encouragement thereof. Timmy calls Armie to ask him about it.

They get to know each other.

Ansel is at a meeting. Timmy calls Armie after the meeting and after calling Saoirse. He says “I love you.” Armie responds “I’m sorry.” The next day they agree to begin dating.

Ansel makes amends.

**June 30, 2020** Timmy takes a sick day.

**August 28, 2020** Timmy and Armie celebrate Armie’s birthday via Zoom.

**November 20-29, 2020** Armie comes to NYC and he and Timmy meet for the first time in person.

**November 27, 2020** Timmy celebrates 3 years clean, with Armie by his side.

**November 28, 2020** Nick stops by to invite Armie to drinks. Timmy learns Armie stopped drinking. Armie ends his relationship with Timmy.

**December 27, 2020** Timmy’s birthday; Armie hosts his father and step-mother for a late Christmas lunch.

**January 2021** Armie talks to Liz about not living together anymore.

**May 28, 2021** Armie texts Timmy to say happy half-birthday for his clean birthday. Timmy tells him they can’t have contact anymore.

**May 30, 2021** Timmy runs a half-marathon with Ansel.

**June 20, 2021** Armie hosts his father and step-mother for Father’s Day. Armie’s father lets him know that he knows Armie is gay and that he is accepting of him.

**July 2021** Armie learns Timmy has left Ivory Advertising.

**December 2021** Armie is in NYC for meetings. Nick invites him to his holiday party and Timmy is there. Armie and Timmy reunite.

**December 25, 2021** Timmy flies on the last plane out from NYC to Los Angeles.

**December 26, 2021** Timmy meets Armie’s parents as his boyfriend.

**December 27, 2021** Timmy and Armie celebrate Timmy’s birthday together. Armie gives Timmy a copy of the key to the beach house. He tells Timmy he won’t buy a place in NYC until they’re ready to move in together.

**early January 2022** Timmy’s car accident. Armie flies out to New York. Armie says, “I love you.”

**early February 2022** Pauline sends an early Valentine’s Day present. They decide to look for an apartment together.

**February 13, 2022** Their first fight.

**February 14, 2022** Armie moves into the company apartment.

**March 20, 2022** Armie suggests they buy and move into the company apartment.

**April 2022** Liz visits to help them decorate.

**Author's Note:**

> thatajthings on tumblr


End file.
